Shining Light
by OughtaKnowBetter
Summary: Hundreds at the seminar. Several 'suicides'. Four FBI agents. One brother. Story complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Shining Light**

**By OughtaKnowBetter**

Disclaimer: Get real. Would I be doing this if I owned them?

A/N: many many thanks to SerialGal and FraidyCat, who did an excellent beta for me when I was afraid that the words outran my good sense. They reined me in; any errors are mine for not listening to them.

* * *

Don walked in through the front door of the Craftsman, savoring the comfort of home, inhaling the smell of oregano and other spices that emanated from the kitchen. Technically, this wasn't home, but that didn't matter to either Don or his father busily working over the stove or even his brother out in the garage. The apartment was where Don left his clothes and took his morning shower. Here, in the house where he and his brother had grown up, was home.

_Home_ was what he needed at the moment. Some place where he could push away the frustrations of the world, a place where he could relax with a beer in his hand and not have to worry about all the intricate ways that man had learned to kill his fellow man. Home was where he could divorce himself from real life and turn back into a person, just like everyone else. He paused at the doorway, simply enjoying all the old furniture that welcomed him, the piano in the corner trying to collect dust, the small picture frames on the wall chronicling two small boys' journeys into men.

There was a pause in the clatter of utensils. A voice called out from the kitchen. "Donnie, is that you?"

"Yes, Dad."

"Good. You're finally home," his father grunted, resuming his culinary efforts. Despite all the changes—Charlie's purchase of the old Craftsman as well as Don's several years in another part of the country—Alan Eppes remained the patriarch of the household. Charlie was reminded of that detail every time someone brought up the specter of renovation; Charlie automatically turned to his father for permission.

_No, not permission_, Don told himself, _but advice_. Advice, from a man who'd successfully kept this old homestead going for some thirty-odd years. Advice, from a man who had based his career on city planning, on knowing how and what to build where. Charlie was only being sensible, seeking wisdom from a man who could legitimately say, 'been there, done that, got the scars to prove it'.

Don flopped onto the sofa, wondering if he could get away with propping his feet up on the coffee table. _What the hell. Worst case scenario, Dad'll tell me to get 'em off like he's done for the last thirty years_.

The remote control was within easy reach; he snagged it and flipped the set onto something mindless, not even seeing what was playing. It was the noise he needed, something to distract him from his thoughts.

Those thoughts were not good ones.

His father, missing the appearance of his eldest son in the kitchen, strolled out to see where Don had perched. He cocked his head, and surveyed his son with an unreadable expression on his face.

Don guiltily removed his feet from the coffee table, trying not to seem like he was fourteen years old again and caught at whatever it was that he wasn't supposed to be doing. Dammit, he was a grown man! He clicked off the TV set. "Hey, Dad."

"Hey, yourself." Alan Eppes lowered his backside into the easy chair at an angle to the sofa where Don was repositioning himself. "Tough first day back?"

"You could say that."

"Lots of paperwork?"

Grunt.

"Something else?"

His dad was good. Don had always thought that he'd picked up interrogation skills from his mother—who could read both her sons better than any interrogator that Don had ever studied under at Quantico—but apparently the Alan Eppes genes had put in their share to hone Don's talents. "Yeah," Don admitted reluctantly.

Alan gave him all of one hundred twenty seconds before prodding. "Well?"

Don tried to evade. "Case in San Francisco didn't go so well, Dad."

"Not all of them do. Can you talk about this one?"

Don sighed, and looked away. "There are times when this job sucks. This was one of 'em." He sighed again, summoning the energy to say something else. "Murder, Dad. Nothing less than that, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it."

"He got away with it. Assuming it was a 'he'."

"Yeah, it was a 'he.'" Once started, Don found it impossible to stop. "Couldn't charge him with anything. Called himself a 'life coach', and talked to a bunch of impressionable young kids. Not kids, really; they were all legally adults, but kids just the same. He talked 'em into killing themselves, and then he laughed about it. He laughed about it," Don repeated, seeing the scene in his mind's eye.

_It was the eyes that got to him: alternately green, then blue, and moving through hazel on their way to light brown. The one constant in those eyes was the glitter that stayed, the gleam that either drove his followers to insanity or haunted his pursuers with their inability to stop him._

_Wesley Anders was not a man that anyone would look at twice—unless they saw those eyes. He was shorter than Don himself, with mousy brown hair that was ruthlessly slicked back out of the way. A tightly wound package: belt pulled tight around the trim waist that had long ago sent fat packing, long pants that broke across the shoe just so. No tattoos, no moles, no distinguishing marks. Nothing so irresponsible would dare mar the perfect skin, not even a smattering of facial hair._

Almost_ perfect: there was a scar. This scar began at the corner of Anders' mouth and drew a jagged line up to his ear. Anders wore it like a badge of courage, refused to tell anyone where or how he'd received it._

_The last victim, a kid of only twenty, was one who'd hung himself. The autopsy showed nothing: no drugs in his system, nothing that would suggest a murder. The kid had stepped onto a chair, pulled a rope around his neck, and jumped. Death had taken several hours, the medical examiner estimated._ _The neck hadn't snapped to cause instantaneous death, and the kid had slowly suffocated over the next three to four hours, knowing what was going on and unable to do anything about it. If there was a worse way to die, then Don wasn't aware of it._

_They pulled Anders in, to question him. He'd been the last person to see the kid alive. Had the kid seemed depressed? No, Anders—a life coach—had spoken to him in uplifting terms._

_Right. There was that laugh, as the San Francisco agents questioned him. _Can't touch me_, said the laugh_. I only talked to him_, said that smile. _I only told him he was worthless, that the world would be better off without him,_ said that smirk. And Anders had walked, the law unable to touch him._

"He's got a pattern." Don stared at the blank television. "He moves into an area, targets bright college kids and young professionals. Sets himself up as a 'life coach' like that's some sort of professional license to mess with kids' heads. The San Francisco office pulled me in to consult." He laughed bitterly. "Fat lot of good I was. Three people died last week, and none of us could do anything about it. _I _couldn't stop him."

"You can't stop everyone, Donnie," Alan told him. "You try your best, and sometimes your best isn't enough."

"That was the fourth time, Dad." Don turned stricken eyes on his father. "San Francisco was the fourth place Anders set up shop, and persuaded kids to kill themselves. The fourth place that he got away with it! And now he's here, Dad! He's setting up a place to do it again, right here." Don realized he was on his feet, looking down at his father, and had no idea how he'd gotten there. "Dad, he walked into FBI headquarters, and asked to talk to me. Dad, he knew that I was there in San Francisco to try to stop him, and now he's _here_ to rub my nose in it, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it!"

"He's got chutzpah," Alan agreed, refusing to rise to Don's level of agitation. "I can see why you're upset."

"Yeah." Don lapsed into a morose silence, flopping back onto the sofa, staring at the blank television.

_Megan snapped off the recording of the short but definitely not sweet meeting between Don and Wesley Anders. The man had waltzed into the Los Angeles branch of FBI Headquarters, requesting to speak to Special Agent Don Eppes. Guards were all around, guns prominently displayed in holsters, eying the man like a hawk, looking for him to try something, knowing that something was up. Anders had walked through the metal detectors without so much as a beep, not even excess coinage in his pockets to set the detectors off, and waited for Don at the front desk._

_Don hadn't given the man access to anything more than the front lobby. That was where they met. Again._

_"Just wanted to let you know that I'm here, Special Agent Eppes," Anders had drawled. He handed over a small white business card that tastefully displayed his name, a location, and whatever credentials the man had purchased to put after his name. "I suspect that at some point in the near future you'll be wanting to investigate me, just as you did up North. I thought that I'd save you the trouble of finding me."_

_Anders left after that; there was nothing that Don could do or say to change anything that was going to happen. Don knew it, Anders knew it, and soon the rest of L.A. would, too._

_"Definite ego problem," was Megan's take on it. Around her, David and Colby nodded their heads. Neither of them needed a profiler to tell them that. Megan went a step further. "Guys, he's daring us. He's challenging us to stop him, and he knows that we can't because he hasn't broken any laws. We can investigate all we like, but until we have evidence of something illegal we can't charge him."_

_David frowned. "And talking to kids, telling them to kill themselves, isn't illegal. Morally wrong, but not illegal."_

_"Piece of slime," Colby said. He considered the frozen screen shot, committing Anders' picture to memory. "What can we do about it?"_

_None of the team liked the dark and brooding look on their team leader's face. "Nothing," Don said, the tension tight in his voice. "Nothing official. Not yet. Not until he crosses the line."_

"Nothing I can do about it," Don repeated.

Charlie walked in from the garage, slapping his pants to remove the dust. "Nothing you can do about what?"

"Keep the dirt outside, Charlie," his father admonished.

Charlie smirked. "My house, Dad. I can do whatever I want," he teased.

"That's the floor that I just washed," Alan pointed out. "Either take the dirt outside, or you'll do your own washing."

Charlie took on a deer-in-the-headlights look. "Uh…okay, Dad." He stepped back outside the transom to finish slapping off the dirt, stomping his feet to complete the task. "Okay now?"

"Now I'll let you back inside your own house," Alan agreed complacently. "Dinner in five minutes. Don was just talking about his case up in San Francisco."

"Sounds like a tough one," Charlie commiserated. "There was nothing you could do about what?"

Don shook his head. "Long story, Chuck. Leave it."

_The last victim, the one who had hung himself, was only twenty. The kid was on the short side, slender, with tousled dark hair that fell into his eyes. The eyes had been big and brown and endearing. He wore a white tee with a heavier shirt tossed over, and jeans, and cross-trainers to walk around in._

_He looked like Charlie._

Don deliberately put the mood away. There really had been a lot of catching up to do; three weeks consulting for San Francisco had left a pile of papers in his 'in' box that he'd spent most of the day shoving into either the 'out' box or the circular file for shredding. "Lasagna?" he asked hopefully.

"Nope," Alan said cheerfully. "I needed a change. This is something called Penne Pasta alla Vodka Rustica, or something like that. Think of it as lasagna without the layers," he added.

"And with vodka," Charlie put in.

"Which means no more beer until after dinner." Alan shook a mock finger at Don. "I dragged a Chianti out of the wine cellar which should go a lot better with this stuff."

* * *

"I put two and two together," Charlie said, relaxing on the sofa and putting his feet up on the coffee table. Alan glared at him. Charlie kicked off his shoes and tucked his feet up under him, still concentrating on his brother. "This Anders character just floated down from San Francisco. Everyone on campus is talking about him. He's been putting up signs, inviting students—and faculty—to attend his 'seminars'." Charlie gave the word quotations to show what he thought of Anders' plan. "What's the word from your angle, Don?"

"My angle?" Don snorted. He had to admit, he felt better now that he had a good hot meal inside of him and the remnants of the Chianti waiting for him in the wine glass in his hand. "My angle is: Keep away from him. Don't even start with him. Ignore him; maybe he'll go away."

"Not likely," Charlie told him. "About a quarter of my students are going to go to his first lecture, just to see what all the fuss is about. It's free; they can afford the cheap entertainment."

Blackness tried to creep back into Don's soul. "Any way you can tell 'em not to? Threaten 'em with an 'F' or something?"

"Somehow I don't see that happening," Charlie said wryly. "Besides, how bad could he be? The kids at CalSci tend to be brighter than average. They should see right through him."

"That's what all the other colleges said, Charlie." Don really didn't want to feel the despair all over again. He took a healthy swig on the Chianti. "That's what they said about the two college professors that killed themselves." He took another gulp, a smaller one this time but only because he was running out of wine.

"And there's nothing you can do about it, because he hasn't broken any laws," Charlie mused. He steepled his fingers. "All he does is talk, right?"

"Charlie." Don sat bolt up straight in alarm. "Charlie, you're not thinking of having anything to do with this guy? Stay away from him! You hear me?"

"Don, I talk to some of the brightest minds of this century," Charlie calmly pointed out, "and if I can talk intelligently to them, I can certainly hold my own against this character. Besides, people who tend to fall for this sort of nonsense are people without strong support systems, people who don't feel particularly connected to their families, right? I have you, and I have Dad. I have Amita, and Larry. If nothing else, it will be amusing to pick apart his arguments." He leaned forward. "Let's face it, Don. You really want to nail this guy, right?"

Don shook his head. "Charlie, you don't understand. This guy is dangerous. Promise me you'll ignore him. Please, Chuck," he half-pleaded, half-demanded. "Leave him to the law enforcement types. Promise me not to have anything to do with him," he repeated.

"You enforcement types haven't gotten very far, or have I misinterpreted the entire past five minutes of conversation?"

"Charlie—"

"Don—"

Inspiration hit. "Charlie, I need you to ignore him," Don said. He tried to sound like a confident team leader, entirely in control of the situation. "Charlie, I worked on the case up North, and the man came to try to taunt me at L.A. Headquarters just this afternoon. How would it look if my own _brother_ showed up at one of his seminars? Hm?"

Charlie considered. "You've got a point," he conceded. "Okay, Don. You win. I suppose you want me to dissuade Amita and Larry from doing the same thing."

"Yeah." Don had a brief flash of Dr. Lawrence Fleinhardt tying Anders up in verbal knots—and reluctantly put the fantasy away. There was too great a chance of the discussion going the other way; Larry, in his search for the soul, would carefully consider Anders' words and possibly try to read in something that wasn't legitimately there. Amita, brilliant though she was, didn't have the personal flamboyance that would push rational logic through Anders' rhetoric. Anders was just as likely to twist Amita's words around and make things worse. _Can't have that. Things are bad enough as they are._ "Thanks, Charlie." He woefully considered his wine glass, and the cup of coffee that his father had thoughtfully supplied. The coffee was the right temperature for chugging, and Don obliged. It was a short drive home, but he still needed a clear head to avoid the idiots on the road.

"You could spend the night here, Don," Charlie offered.

Don shook his head. Tonight had served his purpose. Don felt renewed in spirit and determination, even if he couldn't go after Wesley Anders. There was a job to be done, and criminals to be caught who were doing just as much damage to the people of L.A. and possibly more. "Thanks, but it'll be an early morning tomorrow." He hoisted himself to his feet. "Thanks for dinner, Dad. Charlie, keep me posted about that Anders guy. Let me know what he's doing. We'll keep an eye on him, and hopefully he'll cross the line and we can put him away before anyone else gets hurt. 'Night, Dad."

* * *

The tap on the shoulder took Charlie completely by surprise. He jumped and whirled around, whipping the headphones off of his ears.

His visitor stepped back, holding up his hands in apology. "Sorry. Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"My fault," Charlie returned. He gestured to the white board that he'd been writing on, the white expanse covered with esoteric Greek symbols interspersed with the occasional numerical expression. "I tend to get pretty wrapped up in my work." He extended his hand, dropping his headphones onto his desk with the other. "Charlie Eppes. How can I help you?"

"Wesley Anders," the man told him smoothly.

Charlie froze. This was the man that Don had been talking about last night, the one who was posting flyers up all over campus, inviting students and staff and everyone else to come listen to him speak. There were no requests for money—Charlie had seen that first thing—but he had no doubts that the demands would follow. It fit the pattern.

Up close, the man looked unremarkable. He was about Charlie's height and weight, same general build although this man clearly spend more time lifting weights. Charlie's own routine was running and hiking; this man wanted a more sculptured look. In fact, everything about him screamed _control_. Control over the tightly clipped hair, over the smooth-shaven jaw, the clothes fitting exactly just so.

And the eyes; Charlie could see what Don had been talking about last night. The eyes showed a hunger. Charlie was used to seeing that. He saw it in Larry's eyes when his friend and mentor talked about investigating the stars and he saw it in Amita's eyes as she manipulated numbers into the combinations that solved riddles that had plagued mankind for centuries. He saw it in the faces of his fellow professors, ambling along the campus with their feet on the ground and their minds in theoretical clouds.

This hunger was different. This hunger made Charlie feel uncomfortable, like a rat being observed in a maze. That maze, Charlie thought, had several sharp edges to it, to nudge the rat in certain directions just to see what he would do.

Charlie decided that he didn't like being a rat.

"How can I help you, Mr. Anders?" he asked, withdrawing his hand gratefully. He really didn't want to shake this man's hand.

Anders apparently felt the same way, but he put on a welcoming smile that never reached his eyes. He extended a flyer to Charlie. "I've come to invite you to my seminar, Dr. Eppes," he said. "I understand that the students here at CalSci think a great deal of you. It would mean a lot to me if you would attend."

Charlie automatically took the flyer, and then wished that he hadn't. What would Don want him to do in this situation? Because it wasn't just Charlie here. Don had made that clear last night. Charlie had a responsibility to Don to keep out of this, to prevent any untoward appearances of impropriety, to keep from dragging the weight of the FBI in on this. Yet turning the invitation down flat would insinuate that Charlie was afraid of Wesley Anders.

Charlie selected vagueness as the optimal response. "I'll consider it," he said, placing the flyer onto his desk in dismissal. He picked up his headphones. "Now, if you don't mind—?"

Anders took the hint. "Of course, Dr. Eppes. I'll see you tonight." He gave a stiff bow, turned, and exited Charlie's office.

"When pigs fly," Charlie muttered. He waited a good three minutes to ensure against a return visit, and picked up the phone. "Don? It's Charlie. You don't want to know who just paid me a visit…"

* * *

"Sit," Megan ordered. She pointed to his chair. The chair sat in the middle of Don's cubicle, and his team was surrounding him, blocking out the light from the windows that was trying to enter FBI Headquarters through those windows. It made for a slightly crowded office.

"Megan—"

"Sit," she repeated. This time both David and Colby backed her up. Each of his fellow team members grabbed Don by the arm and forced him down into his chair.

Don glared up at the three of them. "Fine way to treat your boss," he grumbled.

"Perfect way, and you know it, Don." Then Megan got serious. "Don, we're not taking this lightly. Anders approached Charlie; he's throwing down the gauntlet. He's challenging you, and he's making it personal. Yesterday in the FBI lobby was just a teaser. Anders is saying that he's coming after you."

"He's going after Charlie."

"He's going after _you_, Don," Megan repeated, "and he's going to try to go through Charlie to do it."

Don tried to keep the words from digging a crater inside. He strove to keep up his reputation as a hard ass FBI agent, even in front of his team. "He's going to try," he grunted brusquely. "I told Charlie to keep away from him."

"Yeah, well, that's not gonna work, man," Colby said. "Not with Anders making house calls."

"We need a plan," David said.

"Yeah? Well, I'm all ears, 'cause nothing we did in San Francisco got us any further than where we are now. And may I remind you that _there is no case?_ No crime has been committed. Nothing fits the legal definition of murder, no matter how much we want it to."

"Don—"

"I'm not kidding, Colby." It felt even worse to explain this to his team. "I went to the Director himself, right after Anders approached Charlie. No murder, no case, we're not working it. Only a bunch of suicides; tragic, but not anything for the FBI. We tried that, up North. There's plenty of other work to be done, he told me. When there's a murder, something that the coroner's office can point to, then we can go after Anders, or whoever is responsible," Don tossed in, the last phrase sticking in his craw.

His squad of three looked at each other. Not one liked what they had heard. Not one agent was willing to let the situation lie there and flop around on the ground having a temper tantrum.

"Wouldn't be the first time I did a little recreational work on the computer," Colby offered, "on my off-duty time."

"Charlie's a friend of mine," was David's line. "Gotta look out for your friends, especially when you think someone's after one of them. After you, I mean. With Charlie in-between."

Megan shrugged. "I have to admit to a professional interest," she said with a healthy dose of sarcasm. "I understand that Wesley Anders specializes in personality manipulation. I'd like to study his methods. Maybe I'll get a paper out of it, if I ever go into academia."

Don bit his lip. He could always count on his team, no matter what, and he felt a great deal of gratitude at this particular moment. "Guys, I have to be honest. I worked my hardest on this one, and so did the rest of the guys in San Francisco. We came up with nothing. I can't ask you to put in hours of personal time on a case that might not pan out—"

"This time," David interrupted, "you've got the premier team of L.A. working on the case, not some hacks from San Fran with only an L.A. consultant to ignore."

"They didn't ignore me, Sinclair, and you know it. And they're far from hacks."

David politely did ignore that comment. "I'm on my coffee break right now," he said, referring to the directive of 'no case'. "Let's start with what we do have. Anders comes into a new territory, looking for victims. How does he operate?"

This Don knew, and Don was also on an impromptu coffee break along with the rest of his team. "He sets up what he calls 'seminars' that are thinly disguised marketing ploys. His goal is to eventually make money. He persuades college kids, professors, young urban professionals, people like that to come and listen to a free session, and he makes his pitch. He enrolls them in a series of seminars—all for a substantial amount of dough which he pockets for his trouble—and then starts working their heads around until he's got them twisted around his pinky finger."

"In other words," Megan observed, "he's engaging in cult-like behavior, only without the cult verbiage."

"Right. He's setting up a new cult of Wesley Anders in every new town he comes across. Only instead of promising religious salvation, he's pushing social enlightenment. Feel-good rhetoric," Don added. "I sat in on one of his so-called 'lectures'. He talks about world peace through loving your neighbor, getting ahead by persuading everyone to do things your way. 'Let your light shine through' is his catch phrase, and by the end of the lecture you've got a bunch of people muttering it all the way home."

"He knows which buttons to push," Megan decided. "What next? If he was just a cult leader, we wouldn't be having this discussion. He gets kids—and adults—to kill themselves. How does he do it? And why?"

"Good question," Don admitted. "We never could figure it out. We autopsied the bodies every which way to Sunday, and nothing ever showed up. No drugs, no booze, nothing but healthy bodies." _Healthy bodies that were dead_, he bit back.

"Hypnosis?" David asked.

Megan shook her head. "Not very likely. Contrary to popular belief, hypnosis only works when your subject wants it to. You can't force someone to behave in a way that's contrary to what they believe in or want. For example, hypnosis will only help a smoker quit cigarettes if they really want to. If the smoker doesn't want to quit, he or she won't. Hypnotizing someone into committing suicide will only work if the subject is depressed or suicidal to begin with; possibly with an anxiety-impulsive disorder."

"As far as we could tell, all of Anders' victims were normal, psychologically healthy people with everything to live for," Don said. "They were college students having fun, looking forward to graduation and starting their lives. Many of them expected to go to graduate school, to law school and the like. The professors were all well-published and well-respected in their fields. Then Anders got hold of them, and within a week or so, they withdrew from their usual routines and killed themselves." _That's what I'm afraid that he's going to do to Charlie_.

They all heard what Don carefully didn't say aloud, and more than one mind thought briefly of PnP, the unsolvable equation that nearly destroyed his brother. The past victims were strong psychologically; could they honestly say the same of Charlie?

"I never got into the back rooms," Don went on unhappily. "I walked into one of Anders' lectures, and he made me on the spot. He knew that I was Federal, and he wasn't about to play ball. Only certain people advanced to his back rooms."

Megan had been drawing her eyebrows downward further and further, thinking about what Don was saying. Now she pounced. "Certain people? What kind of certain people, Don?"

Don frowned. "I don't know. Kids, maybe. The people who died."

"I want to profile this man," Megan announced. "There are a number of characteristics which don't add up, things like why he's targeting college students and professors, professionals with everything to live for. People like Anders usually aim for unhappy people, people who want to change their lives because they don't perceive their current lives as being worthwhile. Unless there's something else going on, the more intelligent population tends not to be impressed by these sorts of 'seminars'."

Colby heard what she was saying. "So why are the brainiacs getting sucked in?"

"More to the point, why is Anders going after them?" Megan asked rhetorically.

"In the meantime, we need a plan," David said, pulling them back to the case. "Ideas, anyone?"

They looked at each other.

"I do have one," David admitted, "but, Don, you're not going to like it."

"I already don't like it."

David knew that. "Anders has already approached and targeted Charlie."

"And we don't like that, either."

"We can't change what has happened, but we can use it," David suggested. "We know that he's going to invite Charlie to more of his 'seminars'. Charlie goes—"

"No."

"Hear me out, Don. Charlie attends one of these farces, and we de-brief him after every one. You said earlier that all of Anders' victims showed signs of withdrawal for a week before their deaths."

"A very _short_ week. Don't forget that, David."

"I'm not, and neither is anyone else in this room. Anders knows who Charlie is and who his brother is, and he's going to continue to go after him. All I'm saying is that we watch Charlie and use what's going to happen to our advantage."

"No. I don't want Charlie involved."

"Or we could pretend that Charlie's not involved and let Anders go after him without us keeping an eye on things," Megan suggested, with the irritation plain. "It's your call, Don."

Don glared at her. He glared at each one of his team.

David spread his hands. "It's your call, Don."


	2. The Light Dawns

Charlie approached the newly renovated building, David Sinclair at his side. The building was large and square, the bricks covering the outer aspect sturdy and comforting, suggesting that whatever went on inside was upstanding and dependable. Like a bank, Charlie thought, back in the good old days when people trusted their money to remain there in good shape. Anders had had a crew in for the past couple of weeks, Don had told him, ripping out the guts and replacing them with new and clean interiors, putting in the auditorium where Anders would deliver his spiel. Now the interior lobby had a pristine look about it, sparkling and fresh, something that would stand up to the multitudes that Anders expected to come and listen to him spew his nonsense. There was a non-entity behind the reception desk, handing out name tags and indicating the markers on the side table for use by the guests. The walls, Charlie saw, were wood tone; not real wood but the decorating job was close enough to make it look nice. Soft lights pushed upward, since the sun was making a determined attempt to escape at this time of the evening.

Charlie was grateful that David was beside him. Now that this thing had turned into 'real', he was having second thoughts. It had been all well and fine to volunteer to confront this person making the outrageous claims—Charlie had a small flashback to Larry ranting over lunch yesterday—but at the moment that seemed rather far away.

David caught his momentary case of nerves, and leaned in. "You can still back out, Charlie."

"No, I can't," Charlie whispered back. "You were right; he came to me because of Don. I'm stuck in the middle."

David nodded, reluctantly agreeing. "Just remember, I'm here beside you. I won't let anything go wrong. Introduce me as Professor David Sinclair, political science. He'll see right through me, but that's not the point. Anders is expecting us to do exactly this. We're going to give him what he wants." He squeezed Charlie's arm in reassurance, guiding the math professor into the auditorium.

The inner room was big and cavernous, and here Charlie could see the haste that the workers used to get the place ready in time. Paint had been slapped on without adequate protection for the trim, and here and there a finish nail hadn't been truly finished. Charlie glanced uneasily up at the huge chandelier that swung above, wondering if the thing would come crashing down at some inopportune moment; say, when he or someone else was standing underneath it.

The crush of people slowly trudged their way inside. Charlie estimated that Anders had drawn some two to three hundred people to opening night, and, from the sounds of it, most were simply curious or in need of cheap entertainment. Charlie began to feel better. These were intelligent people, students and professors, not people who were going to accept Anders' spoutings on face value. These people would be all right. The quantity almost filled the small auditorium, and Charlie allowed the corner of his mouth to smirk upward. _His _seminars, on such erudite topics as the Eppes Convergence, would fill a place like this twice over if not more.

"Let's sit over here," he suggested, pushing David to a spot _not_ below the chandelier.

David too glanced upward, and agreed.

Whatever shortcuts had been taken with the décor, the same could not be said for the sound system. Here, Anders spared no expense. From the moment he took the small stage, his voice boomed forth like the trumpets of Mount Olympus, cascading down the mountain and rumbling off into the sea.

"You deserve the best in life, because you are the best life has to offer," he shouted through the mike. Charlie winced; the sound was loud enough to hurt his ears. "You are the best, the brightest, the smartest. I could go on, but I don't have to. You already know this.

"What you don't know is how to tap into that potential that you already possess. You need to grab hold of life; you need to seize it by the throat and squeeze until it gives up its wealth to you."

Charlie couldn't help it; he zoned out. A sticking point on Cognitive Emergence wrote itself onto the whiteboard of his mind along with a potential strategy for solving it, and Charlie began to calculate the digits, occasionally substituting numbers for the variables in order to test the proposed partial theorem. Right: if alpha sub-one pi over two pi alpha sub-two, that would account for the change over time assuming that maturation variable remained constant. Given the speed with which cognition evolved, Charlie doubted that his assumption was correct but it would work for this part of the analysis. The next piece could assault the varying emergence speed, which meant that computer analysis would be required to turn Cognitive Emergence into anything applicable, but that was a no-brainer. Any application theory these days required a certain amount of brute force computations, and that always demanded computer time. The question later on would be if it could be adapted to a smaller mainframe or if it would require the resources of a Cray.

Which was why he was taken by surprise, rising hastily to his feet with the rest of the audience, when Anders completed his speech. Charlie clapped, taking his cue from 'Professor' Sinclair, who was enthusiastically pumping his arms to keep up with the rest of the audience. He eyed his neighbors in the auditorium, mostly college kids although he did spot three of the younger professors from the Psych department and one each from History and English—and by younger he meant only a decade older than Charlie himself.

Charlie had apparently also missed the money pitch, for roughly a third of the audience was filing forward to the stage to pick up additional application forms and some to plunk down payment in the form of cash or credit. He started forward, to be part of the crowd, only to be jerked back by a swift tug on his arm by David. He looked up. David shook his head imperceptibly, and Charlie recalled this part of his instructions: let Anders come to Charlie. Charlie did not go to Anders. Anders would suspect something if Charlie seemed as though he'd been taken in.

Instead, he allowed David to escort him out, weaving his way through the crowd, occasionally recognizing and acknowledging several of his students. "Hey, Josh, yes, it was an interesting premise." "No, Janice, this will not appear on tomorrow's lecture," _although I may have to think up a proof to deny what Anders said, if only I can figure out what it was. I'm not about to tell you that I stopped listening._

_Although maybe I should. That might be an effective way to suggest that Anders had nothing worthwhile to say._

Charlie liked that thought, played with it all the way back to David's car.

"So, what did you think?" David broke into Charlie's thoughts.

"Hm?"

"Anders' talk," David repeated. "You know, the lecture we just left? What did you think of it?"

Charlie was glad that the night's darkness covered the red flushing over his face. "Hate to tell you this, David, but I think I forgot to listen. What did he say?"

David stared at him, finally breaking into a white-toothed grin. "Man, am I going to be pleased to be able to tell Don that." He chuckled. "You couldn't have given a better answer, Charlie. You really didn't listen?"

"Uh…yeah," Charlie admitted, guiltily pleased that David seemed to like his answer. "There was this Cognitive Emergence thing that I've been working on, and—"

David put up a hand. "Save it for someone who can follow what you're saying, professor. In the meantime, let me take you home. Don's waiting there for us, right?"

* * *

As it turned out, not only was Don waiting for the pair to return but so were Alan Eppes, Megan and Colby.

Don barely let them get into the house. He swiftly scanned his brother's face. "You're okay, buddy? Nothing happened? David?"

"Nothing happened, Don." Charlie wasn't certain if he liked the attention or felt more embarrassed by it. He'd felt this way his first few weeks at Princeton, he recalled, with his mother trying not to hover over him but still wanting to protect him from the 'older kids'. None of them really knew where to draw the line; even Charlie himself wasn't sure that he didn't want his mom running interference. Classes were easy. It was trying to fit in with kids four or more years older than he was that was hard.

This was similar, with Don and the others wondering how far to protect him from Anders. Charlie felt a momentary flare of annoyance. Did he really need protection from Anders? The man's words, what Charlie remembered of them, were designed to appeal to the lowest common denominator of society, not someone with an advanced degree and an ability to think logically. And Charlie was not someone in need of counseling, someone whose life was not in order. Charlie had a successful career, a burgeoning love life with a beautiful and intelligent woman, a stable family life.

"Nothing happened, Don," David echoed, supporting Charlie's statement.

"Not that we expected it to," Megan put in. "I'll bet that Anders was watching for Charlie in the audience."

"We made it easy for him," David said. "Charlie signed in on the sign-in sheet."

"I even made it legible," Charlie told his brother. "Do you know how hard that was for me?"

"After the years your mother spent trying to get you to write properly, I appreciate it," Alan commented. "It's nice to know that some of it got through that thick skull of yours."

Colby drew them back. "All right, what's next? What is Anders going to do, now that he's seen Charlie at one of his lectures?"

"Easy," Don said. "If Anders stays true to form, he's going to start inviting a few of his guests into his 'back room' for some intensive 'counseling'. He'll pick and choose from the list of people who applied." He eyed Charlie nervously. "You didn't sign up, right, Chuck?"

"Yes, mother," Charlie returned, allowing an edge of irritation to show.

"Good," Don grunted, not mollified.

"We stick to the plan," Megan told the room. "We make Anders come to Charlie. Anders knows that we know that he's after Charlie. He's out to show us that he can beat us, just like he beat the San Francisco people and all the other towns where he's offered his seminars." She focused on Charlie. "Charlie, there's more information that you should know. My profile shows that Wesley Anders is a very angry man, and that he has pinned his anger onto people that he perceives as 'smart'. I looked at his victims, and by and large they were all very intelligent people. The professors were well-respected in their fields, and the students were not party animals. They were the ones their classmates looked up to, the ones that were expected to go on to make significant contributions to their chosen body of knowledge. The victims did not fit the typical 'victim' profile."

"In other words: you, Charlie." Don was clearly not happy. "You sure you don't feel like killing yourself?"

"No, Don."

"If my profile is correct, the next move is Anders'." Megan moved them back to the pertinent points of the discussion. "Charlie, over the next couple of days, I expect Anders to come to you and invite you to some sort of 'special' lecture. He'll couch it in terms of perhaps 'doing him a favor'. Agree to do whatever he asks, but make him work for it. Don't agree immediately. Extract some sort of compromise, maybe tell him that you'll attend 'if you have the time'. Understand?"

Charlie nodded. "I can do reluctant. Won't he expect me to jump, if he thinks that I'm working with Don and the rest of you?"

Megan smiled. "Yes, but this is what Anders will be expecting. There are a whole bunch of 'he knows, we know' type phrases wiggling through here, so many that I can't keep track of them. Bottom line, we want to behave as Anders expects us to. If we deviate, we risk scaring him off. He'll run, and we'll lose our best chance of nailing him." She looked at the clock on the wall. "It's late, guys, and we'll all bushed. There's nothing more we can do tonight. Charlie, if you need to talk about this, call me. Day or night."

"Or me," Colby put in.

"Or me," David added, not to be outdone.

"What, he can't talk to his father?"

Don nodded. "Chuck, I'm going to crash here for the night. Maybe the next few nights."

Charlie looked at each of the five, and sighed. "Five baby-sitters. And I thought I had it bad when just Don was the baby-sitter." He looked at his brother. "You gonna bring in a girl-friend this time, too?"

Alan _looked_ at Don. "He did? When he was supposed to be watching _you?_"

* * *

The moment came sooner than Charlie had anticipated. Wesley Anders approached him in his office right after his Tuesday morning class.

"Professor Eppes," Anders greeted him, extending his hand.

Charlie took it automatically before remembering that he was supposed to be reluctant, that Don had 'primed' him to avoid this man. "Mr. Anders."

"Call me Wesley," Anders invited. "How did you like my seminar last night?"

"Very…interesting," Charlie lied. _The first part was psycho-babble. The second half I didn't listen to._

"Glad that you liked it." Anders paused, just long enough to make it seem as though his next offer was spontaneous. "You didn't sign up for my follow up sessions. They're only open to a select few, you know. It's an opportunity to spread your wings and fly. You can let your light shine through."

"Thanks, but I'm kind of busy at the present time." Charlie gestured apologetically to the whiteboard, covered with a multitude of symbols. "I'm a little behind on my work."

"I understand, but this is exactly the time when you most need what I have to offer," Anders oozed. "With my help, you can increase your work speed three-fold. You can let your light shine through, have your work recognized for the genius that it is."

_I'm already recognized for the genius that I am. That's why I'm teaching here at CalSci, along with the other recognized geniuses._

Charlie tried to look interested, but not too interested. "Well…"

"You would do me a great favor by attending," Anders pushed. "Think of it! One session with me, and your work shines forth. I too will have some small part in your success, and that will make it easier for others to take advantage of my techniques. Think of the advances that will be made, all because you had the courage to explore your own brilliance!"

Charlie looked longingly at his whiteboard, hoping that his expression didn't look fake. "Maybe I could spare a little time…"

"Wonderful! A few minutes is all that I ask," Anders told him. "I look forward to seeing you there, Professor Eppes." He took Charlie's hand again, shaking it. "Until tonight."

"Until tonight," Charlie echoed.

He waited until Anders disappeared down the stairs before picking up his phone and dialing a well-known number. "Don? Charlie. It went just as you predicted…"

* * *

"Don? Don, wait a second." Megan pushed Don back into his cubicle. "Don, we're on a coffee break right now, right?"

"Right," Don said instantly. "What have you got?"

"I lucked out," Megan told him. "I ran across some additional information on our friend. It seems that Mr. Wesley Anders, after receiving his bachelor's degree in psychology, failed to gain admittance to any of the graduate schools that he applied to, and he applied to a bunch. They all turned him down, and turned him down a second time when he re-applied the following year. Insufficient grades, for the most part, compounded by poor marks on the Graduate Record Exam. I talked to someone at his college, off the record, and while she wouldn't say anything directly, I got the distinct impression that Wesley Anders was not the best-loved student at his alma mater." She let Don peruse the papers that she'd dredged up. "This explains his anger, and it explains why he targets the victims that he does. Most people in his position, looking to build a business as a life coach, would go after those groups of people less likely to question what he's saying, more eager to succeed by following his advice, and grow a reputation from there. Anders wants the challenge of those who don't think that they can benefit from what he's peddling; he's telling the world _look at me! I really am smart! I'm rubbing the smart guys' noses in it._"

"Yeah, he's smart all right," Don grunted. "So now we have the motive: he's out to pay back the world for his lack of recognition by the Charlies of the world. Any thoughts on the method?"

"Do I have to think of everything?" Megan mock-complained. "I should leave something for you and David and Colby to figure out. You hear from Charlie yet? Anders make his move?"

"Yes. Anders hit him up this morning, and Charlie says that he responded just the way you primed him. He thinks that Anders thinks that he's suckered Charlie in on the lure." Don blinked, hoping that the sentence came out with the meaning that he intended it to have.

"Good," Megan said. "So far, Anders is reacting the way we think that he should. We'll keep an eye on him."

"How?" Don asked gloomily. "In case you haven't noticed, we all have day jobs. No case means no warrants to look over Anders' cell phone records, see who he's contacting. We can't legitimately investigate him."

"People like this don't usually contact many people, Don," Megan replied gently. "I know you're worried about Charlie; we all are. The best way to protect him is to figure out how Anders does what he does, and then arrest him for it. Solve the case, Don."

"There is no case," Don groaned. "No murders, just a bunch of suicides. Nothing we can pin on him."

"Yet," Megan reminded him. "Yet."


	3. Treading Lightly

"I'm supposed to quiz you forty different ways, to make certain that you're not going to suddenly hop into your car and drive four hundred miles due east for no good reason," his father announced upon arrival at Charlie's office. He held out a bag. "I brought sandwiches."

Charlie's face lit up. "I was not looking forward to the mystery meat at the dining hall," he admitted. "I don't care that Don set this up. Sandwiches from home are worth it."

"From home? No. Rupert's Deli. You want the chicken or the bologna?"

"Kosher bologna?"

"Is there any other kind?"

"Yes," Charlie told his father in no uncertain terms, "and they're all as bland as Larry's white food. I'll take the bologna sandwich, to save you from the extra grams of cholesterol."

"What a son, thinking of his father at a time like this." Alan handed over the desired sandwich. "You want your pickle?"

"Yes."

"Rats. I knew you would," Alan complained. "Donnie never wanted his."

"He's the good son," Charlie acknowledged, his mouth already full. "I'm the wicked son who won't let his father steal my kosher dill."

They ate in companionable silence, enjoying the food that Alan had brought.

It went too quickly, and Alan prolonged the moment. "Seriously, Charlie; you're okay?" he asked. "I know Don is driving you crazy over this, but…"

"I'm fine, Dad," Charlie reassured him. He gestured to the figures on his whiteboard. "Too much work to even consider leaving it behind, and the whiteboard won't fit in the back seat of the Prius. Driving due east forever will have to wait."

Alan nodded, still somber. "Charlie, when your mother…" He couldn't finish the statement. "Charlie, be careful," he said instead. "I don't think I could stand it, if you…" He couldn't finish that statement, either.

Charlie put a hand on his father's arm. "It's okay, Dad. _I'm_ okay. I'm not going anywhere." Then he saw the time, and hustled to throw away the paper remnants of lunch. "Except maybe to that one o'clock meeting that Mildred Finch has called. If I'm late, can I blame it on you, Dad? That may be the only way I can get out of trouble!"

* * *

"This tape itches, Don," Charlie complained. "What if he sees it through my shirt?"

The team was in the Mobile Surveillance Unit, a large truck that Colby had parked around two corners from Anders' business so as not to get caught. There was a vague logo plastered on the side of the van, its edges ripped and the center faded, until the casual passerby would no more notice its presence than a speck of dirt on the pavement. It was simply part of the environment, parked there for the evening. Though large, inside Don still felt as though the ceiling was brushing the top of his head and that five people was four too many for the space provided. Banks of equipment flashed demanding lights as David ran them through their paces, complaining that they were capable of oh-so-much more if only Team Eppes cared to try.

"He's not going to see it, Charlie, so shut up and quit whining," Don told him. "I don't care how much those wires itch. You're not going in there without some way for me to monitor what's going on."

"It's just a seminar," Charlie grouched. "There will be other people there. He's not going to try anything with other people around."

"Besides, didn't you say something about getting a week's notice? His victims all signaled their intentions by withdrawing from life." David finished taping the wires to Charlie's chest. "Man, this is going to hurt coming off. You should have let me shave some of the hair off of your chest." He glanced over to Don. "You sure you don't want me with him? Anders has already seen me with Charlie."

"Anders only invited Charlie, not David," Megan reminded them. "This is for invitees only. If Charlie brings David in, we'll scare off Anders."

"Maybe not such a bad idea," Don grumbled under his breath.

Megan caught it. "You can still call this off, Don. We can walk away, stick a bodyguard on Charlie until Anders gets tired of the game."

"And then Anders moves to another part of the country and starts all over again." Colby completed the concept. He tapped the headphone that covered one ear. "Wire is working fine. I'm hearing all of you through the mike. Remember, I need to get this stuff back to Equipment before eight tomorrow if we don't want to get caught 'borrowing' it."

Don glared at them. "I'm still considering this whole thing," he informed them. "I don't like it. It's dangerous."

"Fine," Charlie said, "but consider it a little faster, so that I can get this over with." He glanced at the time on his cell phone window. "If I don't leave now, I'll be late."

"Anders will wait for you."

"Yeah, but _I _want to finish this. It's been a long day, and I was out last night as well. I'd like to make an early night of it, for a change." He gave a mock salute before jumping down out of the truck, sauntering off along the well-lit pavement to his destination.

The off-duty FBI team listened as Charlie walked along the sidewalk to the building that Anders had rented and renovated. David, after a good three minutes to let Charlie get inside, moved out of the surveillance truck and positioned himself in a storefront where he could watch the entrance to the building where Anders had set up shop, ready to move in if Don should hit the panic button. David too wore an earpiece linked to the system, and he, along with the others, heard Charlie go through the front door, heard him greet the receptionist. They heard Wesley Anders walk forward with his hard-soled patent leather shoes and welcome Charlie, heard him thank Charlie for attending.

"Have some refreshments, Professor Eppes," Anders invited. "The seminar won't begin for another few minutes. Coffee? Juice?"

"Thank you, but I'm not—"

"Here, don't spill it. That's it." Pause. "I have to go now, prepare for my lecture. I'll meet you after the lecture, Professor Eppes?"

"Yes. Certainly."

The FBI team heard the footsteps tap away into the crowd, heard the muttering from the 'special invitees' who had been honored by Wesley Anders to move up to the next step.

It was still a few minutes before Anders was ready to let the small audience in, and Charlie passed the time by chatting with some of the others.

One recognized him immediately. "Dr. Eppes?"

The FBI team could hear the entire conversation over the link. Don could imagine Charlie looking up as the mathematician responded. "Yes." Pause. "You look familiar. Are you in the physics department?"

Chuckle. "No, I'm with Professor Lavoiseaux, in psych. Erin Wernicke, hopeful PhD candidate," she introduced herself. The girl apparently leaned closer to Charlie, for her voice came in more clearly. "I'm doing research. My thesis is on cult behavior and, even though this doesn't qualify as a cult, Dr. Lavoiseaux and I thought that it had enough in common with cults that it would be interesting to assess and compare it to more classical models." Another giggle. "I think I wiped out the last of Dr. Lavoiseaux's grant money, paying for this."

"You may have." Charlie knew that grants didn't flow to the psychology department as easily as they did to the hard sciences, and his own were hard enough to get.

"Do you see that woman, over there?" the girl's voice continued. "Do you know who she is?"

"No." _Should I?_

"That's Melanie Frank."

"Okay…" _Clearly this is someone that this girl thinks I ought to know_. That thought came through loud and clear to the agents in the surveillance truck. Megan immediately turned to her own console, starting running down the name.

"Runs a non-profit for homeless women. What's _she_ doing here?"

"I haven't a clue." _Maybe she's here to listen to Anders. Ya think?_ "Look, the doors are open," Charlie said. "I think he wants us to go in and sit down."

Don and the others in the surveillance truck listened to the sound of feet on a carpeted surface move into a different, more cavernous room, and Don surmised that his brother was now in the auditorium. Several creaks suggested that the participants had seated themselves. The lecture began. Colby taped it.

"Let your light shine forth," Anders intoned as an opening. "You are the best, and the brightest, and the world deserves your expertise. You owe it to the world and yourselves to open up yourselves and bring forth the best in yourself." He paused. "All of you, come forward. Sit in these first chairs. Let us speak together as friends, let our lights shine forth together as one." Anders moved back into his regularly scheduled statements as soon as he had everyone re-seated in front of him.

Don grimaced, and David snorted from his post outside the building. "Same lecture as the initial one," David pronounced it. "Maybe a couple of different phrases here and there, but he didn't even put any effort into punching it up. Don?"

"I never heard round two either," Don admitted, "but you're right. This does sound awfully familiar. How does he keep people coming back if he doesn't offer new material?"

"I don't know, guys," Megan put in doubtfully. "This session doesn't seem to have the same dynamism that Charlie and David spoke of for the first one. If anything, it should have more. This seems almost peaceful in comparison. What is Anders trying to do?"

"Maybe because there's only about a dozen people there? All in front? Anders doesn't need an audio system to be heard."

"Maybe." Megan didn't seem convinced.

"You think there's a clue in there?"

Megan shook her head. "I don't know. Let's see what Charlie's impressions are, once he comes out. Maybe Anders is doing something visual that we can't see."

"Yeah." Don lapsed into silence, listening to the seminar being transmitted over the airwaves, worrying. What _was_ Anders doing in there? How was he getting people to kill themselves? And, worst: _that's my brother in there_.

It was over much more quickly this time. Possibly the fact that this time there was only a dozen participants instead of the few hundred allowed people to trickle out of the building more easily. Don consoled himself with the thought that it meant that he had his brother out of there and under Don's watchful eye more quickly.

They all listened to the exit, surprised that Anders didn't try to speak to Charlie one more time, try to lure him back.

"Megan?"

"I don't know, Don."

"Did we spook him somehow?" Colby wondered.

"Maybe," was David's opinion from the street. "Who knows what would tip off a guy like this? We've tried to do what he's expecting. Maybe he's just the nervous type."

"Not likely," Don said. "This is a guy who likes laughing in our face." He scowled at the audio equipment in the listening post which had performed perfectly. "Let's get Charlie in here, de-brief him. David, don't join Charlie until he's a couple of blocks away. Tail him; make sure that he gets back to us safely."

"And if Anders approaches him?"

"Then back off. Let Anders do what he wants." That was hard for Don to say, but he consoled himself with the fact that Charlie was wearing a wire. Any wrong move by Anders—or a mugger, for that matter—and he'd have four armed and dangerous—and _pissed_—FBI agents jumping down his throat.

But there was no interference with Charlie's escape from Anders' clutches, nothing more than a feral cat who crossed Charlie's path in pursuit of something faster than the eye could see. David caught up with him a mere block away from the surveillance truck where the others hid and escorted him in.

"Well?" Don demanded, extending a hand to pull Charlie into the truck, doing the same for David.

Charlie shrugged. "Don, if he was doing anything, _I_ certainly didn't catch it. If anything, it was more boring than the first speech. I almost fell asleep. Are you sure you want me to go back again tomorrow?" He sat down onto the chair that Don directed him to, able to face the others. David leaned against the back wall of the truck.

_Actually, I never wanted you to go to the first seminar_. But Don only said, "that's the plan, buddy. Did he invite you?"

"Not any more than anyone else. At this point, Don, I think I've become just one of the crowd to him."

"Not likely," Don muttered under his breath. They all caught it.

"Don, why don't you call your Dad, let him know that everything went the way we expected it to, and that Charlie is okay," Megan suggested pointedly. "You know he's worried. Charlie, how do you feel?" she asked, swinging into her psych mode as much for Don's comfort level as to assess Charlie's state of mind.

"Fine. Certainly not in the mood to kill myself. Anders only tried to bore me to death." _More irritated than anything at the constant barrage of solicitude_. Charlie yawned. "Tired, actually. I might be coming down with something."

"Charlie?" Don perked up his ears.

"Dial, Don." Megan turned back to her 'patient'. "What do you mean, tired?"

"I mean, tired. Achy. Physically achy, like a too-strenuous work out." Charlie shifted uncomfortably, trying to find a better spot on the meager chair in the truck. "You might not want to get too close. I might be coming down with the flu." He grimaced. "What perfect timing."

"It's been a lot of stress," Megan soothed. "We'll take you home. Drink plenty of fluids, get a good night's sleep. You'll feel better in the morning."

"I'd better," Charlie said darkly. "Tomorrow's lecture—_my_ lecture, I mean, on Advanced Methods of Statistical Analysis—is one of the more challenging topics. _And_ I've got a test to administer to the Freshman calc class. I can't afford to be sick." He thought for a moment. "Don, what if he doesn't invite me to the next 'seminar'? He didn't say anything, and I gave him plenty of time to approach me before I left the building."

"All part of the game, Charlie." It wasn't a game designed to entertain Don Eppes, though he had no doubt that Anders found it hilarious. "Anders is still playing Cat and Mouse. He knows that we're after him. He's just proving it right now, by not bothering with a personal invite. He knows that we'll have you go back again. It's all part of the control thing. Right now he thinks he's controlling the moves, and he's demonstrating his control by not giving you a personal invitation to his next 'seminar'."

"What if we throw a monkey wrench into the whole thing? Do something unexpected?" Colby asked. "Will we rattle him?"

It was Charlie who answered that. "Not yet. Game Theory: we have to set up a comfort zone for him, so that he thinks that we're following the 'rules'. We're close, but we haven't established a real pattern yet. After tomorrow's session, after three seminars, it becomes a pattern. He'll expect me to simply show up and follow his rules."

"And _then_ we'll start messing with Anders' head," Don said. It was going to feel good to finish this particular case, even though the case itself was unauthorized. "C'mon, Chuck. We need to get you home, and Colby needs to return this truck to the garage."


	4. Night Light

"Time to wake up, Charlie." Don didn't bother to wait for his brother's response. He simply barged into Charlie's bedroom, fearing the worst. It was seven, it was morning, and Charlie's alarm was announcing the same fact.

Don had been up since four AM, worrying, obsessing over the case that wasn't a case, wondering how he could alter circumstances so that he could take Charlie out of the picture. Too much to do, he decided, and too much on his mind. There were three cases that he needed to finish up, the files sitting on his desk, leftovers from before his three week sojourn in San Francisco. Not only that, but Colby had a bear of a case that was eating up the junior agent's working hours as well as some of his after hours availability. Not for the first time, Don felt guilty about dragging his team in on this. It was getting too personal; had it been any other agent, Don would have yanked the agent's tail off the assignment and sent him to the department shrink for some stress relief.

But this wasn't a case, and it _was_ personal, and it was Charlie, the little brother Don had been watching out for ever since Charlie's gifts had manifested themselves. It was second nature for Don to keep an eye out for Charlie, and those feelings had slid right back into high gear as soon as he and his brother began working together. He periodically tried to fight it—Charlie was a grown man now, and supposedly didn't need Don's protection. Dammit, the man had a higher security clearance than Don!—but erasing the habits of childhood took a lot more determination than Don possessed at the moment.

This wasn't helping. Charlie coming down with the flu last night wasn't helping, if that was what was making the man so tired. What if it was something more sinister? What if—?

"What?" Charlie snarled irritably, the bedcovers over, under, and around him in ways that a Moebius strip would find entertaining.

"Time to get up, buddy." Don couldn't begin to express the relief he felt at seeing his brother awake and breathing. All the four AM doubts vanished in an instant. "You've got class, remember? How are you feeling? Flu?"

Charlie stretched, muscles playing against one another. The covers fell away, and Don could see the bare patch where the wire taping had ripped away some of the dark hair on his chest. "Better," he admitted. "Whatever it was, a good night's rest got rid of it." Then he glared at Don, grabbing the blanket that covered most of what it was supposed to. "Do you mind?"

"I've seen everything that you've got, Chuck," Don sniggered, closing the bedroom door. There were some others things that also never changed, and teasing little brothers ranked right up there with the best of them. "I've got coffee on in the kitchen," he called in through the closed bedroom door.

* * *

"What, no wire tonight?" Charlie asked, trying to mask the relief he felt at not needing to deal with the removal of tape process.

For both Eppes men, the day had flown by. Charlie had had a busy day with classes, and Don—still catching up from his San Francisco consultation—had been able to keep himself much more focused on his FBI-approved work now that there was a plan in place to deal with Anders. He still didn't feel good about going after Anders with Charlie as bait, but it _was_ moving forward and Don really didn't see a better way of handling this situation. It wasn't as though Anders hadn't already thrown down the gauntlet. As Megan had pointed out, Charlie was involved whether Don liked it or not. Since that was the case, Don knew, he'd better work it so that he gave his brother the best cover possible.

David grimaced. "Not tonight. Colby couldn't get off—has a suspect to watch, a stake-out—and he was the one with the connection to the motor pool and the wire van. _My_ connection got shipped to Iraq two weeks ago," he groaned.

"I always relied on your connections," Don admitted. "Maybe I'd better start renewing some of my own. Megan?"

"Mine dumped me after I met Larry. The price of genius," she moaned. "And I wasn't even dating the guy, just stringing him along for times like these."

"You want me to go in with Charlie?" David offered.

"Yes," Don started to say.

Charlie interrupted them. "No. Don, we talked about this yesterday. Game Theory; we haven't yet established enough of a comfort zone to change things yet. Anders probably thinks that I'm still wearing a wire, and so he won't try anything. Not yet, at any rate. I should be safe." He grinned, trying to disarm the FBI trio. "Listen, if I'm not out in two hours, please come and get me. Like I said last night: Anders is a boring speaker. I may be crazy, but I'm not stupid."

"A lot can happen in two hours," Don grumbled. He glanced around; they were some ten blocks away from Anders' building, refusing to take the chance that Anders would recognize Don's Suburban and somehow back off. "You ready for this?"

"I've been ready for a while. You'll stay here?"

"Pretty long for us to sit in the Suburban." Don spotted an all-night diner down the block. "We'll wait there. My cell will be in front of me, Chuck."

"Don't worry, Don. Nothing's going to happen. Not tonight. Not for several nights, most likely. That's what the statistics say and that's what your analysis from the San Francisco case says. Besides, you have a better idea?"

There was no choice, and Charlie was right. It was very likely that Anders wouldn't try anything, Don reflected. Anders' goal was to make fools of the FBI and intelligent people, and that meant outwitting them. A direct attack wasn't the man's style. Charlie would be safe, at least until Anders felt confident enough to move onto the next part of his scheme, the part where he persuaded his marks to kill themselves. Reluctantly, Don allowed Charlie to exit the Suburban and walk toward the building where Wesley Anders had set up his 'business'.

As if Don had much choice in the matter.

* * *

_Maybe this time I should stay awake?_ Charlie admonished himself. The first time he had merely zoned out; the resultant advance on Cognitive Emergence had worked out nicely, and Charlie had transferred the equations in his head to the whiteboard in his garage that was saved for such details. The second time? Charlie had to be honest; he had all but fallen asleep during Anders second 'seminar'. The power nap had been refreshing but inadequate, and Charlie had been lucky that Don and the others had recorded it through the wire that Charlie had worn. Without that, Charlie wouldn't have been able to recall a single thing that Wesley Anders had said beyond, "I'm glad you could make it, Professor Eppes."

The number of people, Charlie was pleased to note, had receded. There was now only five—no, six of them left, a mere pittance of the original three hundred who had come out to gawk at the carnival. Charlie only recognized Lavoiseaux's grad student, Erin something-or-other. None of the rest were professors. Professor Lavoiseaux had emailed Charlie just last week, he suddenly remembered, asking if Charlie might have time to discuss statistical analyses with the student, and Charlie had offered to explore getting the student to shadow Megan Reeves for a day. _Note to self: have to remember to do that._ Now Charlie really wished that he was wearing a wire—he could have asked Megan while walking down the block to Anders' business. Wouldn't that have driven his older brother wild, not concentrating on the operation ahead? Charlie grinned just thinking about it.

Hah: seven. One more person walked in after Charlie, greeting Anders with a shake of the hand and then moving on to an older woman in the group. Charlie frowned; he didn't remember seeing that woman in yesterday's group. A new member? No, now Charlie remembered her. It was that Frank woman that the grad student had pointed out, the one who ran some non-profit or other. Didn't matter; she was simply one more person that Charlie was protecting, helping Don with this case.

_Awake. Have to stay awake for this one_. Charlie grabbed a cup of coffee from the refreshments table, making it as black and as hot as he could stand it, hoping that it would help him last through the 'seminar'. He wasn't particularly tired despite the full day of work but that wasn't the point. Preventing Don from yelling at him was an equally reasonable desire.

He took another swig, gulping the last dregs and feeling them burn their way down his esophagus as Anders ushered them into the grand auditorium.

"Down in front, down in front," he instructed them. "There aren't many of you tonight but I believe that most of you will emerge from these sessions empowered to shine your light upon all mankind. You are the chosen few, the ones who will be empowered to succeed." Anders arranged the seven of them in the front row of the auditorium, ignoring the remaining two hundred or so empty seats behind them.

"Take up the headphones," he said. "Tonight, we move forward. We are moving toward the shining light that is each of you. The headphones will help you to concentrate, will help you to focus on the light within. There's an outlet in each handle to the right—no, your other right, Gerald—so that you can plug in right there. Headphones, everyone," he finished, making his way up to the stage.

"Let your light shine forth," Wesley Anders soothed through the mike on the stage. Charlie could hear the man's voice clearly through the headphones. Nice brand; Charlie resolved to look at the name and possibly invest in a pair as a spare for his office. Headphones were wonderful for blocking out the world as needed.

He yawned; couldn't help it. _Gotta stay awake_, he told himself sternly, biting his lip and hoping that the pain would wake him up.

Another yawn. _Crap_. Don was gonna kill him. Charlie stretched his eyelids open desperately, fighting to hear what Anders was saying.

It didn't help when Anders turned down the lights, leaving only a small spotlight on himself. Charlie felt his eyes closing despite his resolution.

"You are one with the world. You _are_ the world."

_This is bull_.

"The world owes you success. Success is yours. Reach out and take it."

_Ow_. Something jabbed him in the leg, under the seat. Damn cushions. Spring came loose, most likely. Charlie shifted in his chair until he found a spot away from the spring.

"You must strive, strive with weary arms, for only then will you be worthy."

_That's supposed…to be…uplifting?..._

"Let your light shine forth…"

* * *

"Let your light shine forth."

"Huh?" Damn. It happened again. Charlie had fallen asleep. What was it with this place? Now he was going to have to tell Don what had happened, and Don was not going to be a happy camper. Charlie remembered some of it, Anders whispering 'let your light shine forth' and similar nonsense. There hadn't seemed to be much substance to what he was saying.

That was it. Charlie couldn't remember what Anders had said, because Wesley Anders hadn't said anything worth remembering. Just the usual platitudes that he'd always come up with, lights shining and something about being one with the world. Larry would have liked that phrase.

On the positive side, Charlie could honestly say that the nap did him a world of good. He felt refreshed, and eager to take on the world. Now he really wished that he'd stayed awake during at least some of Anders' speech, because tying the man into verbal knots worthy of Dr. Fleinhardt would have been an awfully amusing way to spend the rest of the evening. Too bad that Don and the others were waiting anxiously for him outside. Charlie pulled off the headphones, dumping them carelessly onto the seat behind him. He cracked his knuckles, stretching his arms to the tall ceiling of the auditorium, wishing that rushing off wasn't the wisest course of action.

Or was it? Who died and made Don boss? Why _shouldn't_ Charlie stick around for just another five or ten minutes, needling Anders about his lack of imagination in his lectures? Charlie gave exciting demos, and _his_ subject was a topic well-known for being more arid than Death Valley.

He sighed, and the impulse floated away on the wings of desire. No, Don was right. Charlie was all alone in the room with Anders and six other potential suicides, and none of the FBI team knew how Anders was managing to persuade his victims to kill themselves. Until they had that piece figured out, it was best to stick to the plan. Charlie would leave with Anders' other 'clients' and meet up with Don and the others, waiting for him in a diner not twelve blocks from here.

Anders shook Charlie's hand on the way out. "I'm very glad to see you so interested, Dr. Eppes. It gladdens my heart." He pumped Charlie's hand once more. "Let your light shine forth."

"Uh, you too," Charlie stammered. A tiny sliver of a headache was now trying to push out from behind his eyes, Charlie realized. Maybe he was coming down with the flu again? Maybe he'd just ignored it all day long with all the work he'd been doing—had to be honest, it wouldn't be the first time that Charlie had ignored getting sick until an interesting problem had been solved—and now it was rearing its ugly head one more time. No matter; the day was over, and Charlie could go home and go to bed as soon as he got past Don.

Better not mention the flu to Don. His older brother would panic, and take Megan and David with him.

"Good night, Mr. Anders," Charlie said firmly, disengaging his hand.

"Shall I see you tomorrow night, Professor Eppes?"

"I wouldn't miss it," Charlie assured him. _Because things should start to move after this_…

* * *

Charlie walked outside into the cool of the night. The streetlamps did a more than adequate job of illuminating the street, showing every crack in the pavement, every weed that was trying to emerge from beyond the sidewalk. The street was lined with cars, several belonging to his fellow attendees, and most coming and going from the various eateries that catered to the late night crowd. There was an upscale restaurant on that corner, one he remembered taking Amita to and the two of them deciding that it wasn't worth the return visit, and he walked past it, his head beginning to throb with more than just an _I'm tired_ sort of ache.

_Damn_. If there was a worse time to come down with some sort of virus, then Charlie didn't know what it was. Charlie took a deep breath, willing his headache to leave with the exhalation.

Better: he was walking past an all-night stop-and-rob, one with a small assortment of non-prescription medications designed for two purposes: to relieve minor symptoms and to relieve the casual passerby of the contents of his or her wallet, both to the greatest extent possible. Charlie met both qualifications, and moments later he was dry-swallowing something large and bitter, hoping that it would take effect before he reached his brother and the others.

Speaking of which…Charlie dragged out his cell and hit the appropriate buttons. "Don?"

"Charlie! Are you all right? Where are you?"

"Ten blocks away, Don. I'm out. I'm okay," Charlie added swiftly, to forestall any further exclamations.

"Good. We're coming to get you. David, get the check," Don ordered, his mouth away from the cell. "Catch up with us later. We'll wait with Charlie."

Charlie could still hear his brother easily. "Take your time, Don," he said. _Really. Don't rush on my account. Give me time for the pills to kick in._ A thought hit him. "You're not making David foot the bill for this, are you? Don, tell him—"

"I gave him some money to cover it, Charlie." Don rode swiftly over Charlie's objections. "Stay where you are. We're coming to get you."

"Right," Charlie muttered, seeing the little 'call ended' sign pop up in the window of the cell. He sighed. His headache was now moving past the jackhammer stage into something akin to two tanks ramming each other head on. To make matters worse, he'd begun to shake. _Fever_, he thought dolefully. _When it rains, it pours. Drugs, do your thing_. He leaned against the lamp post, waiting for the trio of FBI agents to surround him.

It happened faster than he thought. Charlie closed his eyes for one short moment and when he pried them open again, there were Don and Megan, hustling toward him, with David making long strides to catch up from a block behind the pair. Charlie took a deep breath. Yes, he was starting to feel better. Back down to jackhammers again, and the feverish shaking had gone from nine on the Richter scale to a mere three.

Don grabbed Charlie by the arm, as much to reassure himself that his brother was all right as anything else.

Time for an act worthy of Professor Eppes in front of his honors level Advanced Statistical Analysis class with no prep time on his lecture. Charlie pulled himself upright, pretending that he had been holding up the lamp post and not the other way around.

"You're letting yourself get panicked over nothing," he scolded Don. "Nothing happened. This seminar was even more boring than the last. How does this guy make any money at it? He's not any good at it."

"Not the point, buddy." Don stared at Charlie as if afraid that his brother was going to suddenly grab Don's gun out of its holster and shoot himself in the head. "You sure you're okay? What did Anders do? What did he say?"

Distraction time, which meant 'fessing up to something that Charlie didn't want to 'fess up to in order to keep Don away from worse things. "Hate to say this, Don, but I fell asleep during the lecture," Charlie said with a shrug. "I woke up just in time to keep Anders from guessing what happened. Now that I think about it," he mused, "some of the others did the same thing."

"Fell asleep?" Megan jumped on him as well. "Everyone fell asleep?"

"No, not everyone," Charlie hastened to assure her. "I have to be honest: I didn't pay that much attention to everyone else. I was concentrating on Anders. I was trying to remember what he was saying, so that I could report back to you guys."

"And you fell asleep." Don remained unconvinced of Charlie's well-being.

"It was a long day," Charlie defended himself. _Time for an escape from the real menace: my brother! _"And I've got an early class tomorrow," he lied. "Where'd you leave the Suburban, Don?"

"This way." His brother continued to stare at him. "You sure you're okay?"

Charlie plastered a smirk onto his face, hiding the effort that it took. "I'd offer to race you to the car, but it might look a little strange for two grown men on a busy L.A. street at ten o'clock at night," he said.

It worked. Don looked properly abashed. "Yeah, I guess you're right. C'mon, Chuck. We'll drop Megan and David off at their cars, and I'll take you home. I'm staying the night again," he added.

Charlie sighed dramatically. "Yes, Dad."


	5. Dimming Light

"Hey, guys." Colby walked in, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. He carefully deposited several steaming hot cups and a small bag of bagels onto the desk in front of Don. "How'd it go last night?"

Don scowled at him. "I thought that you were taking the morning off after your stake out last night."

"What's the matter? You don't like bagels? I even got David tea instead of coffee."

"Much appreciated." David slipped in and grabbed his mug before anyone else could take it by mistake.

"Dibs on the blueberry," Megan called from across the room.

"Sorry, Megan. They were all out. Strawberry okay?"

"It'll do." Megan rolled her chair across the floor and snatched up the pink one, nabbing a small container of cream cheese on her way. She took a bite. "Thanks, Colby."

"Stake-out?" Don pushed.

"Oh, that." Colby gave a throw away gesture. "Guy was an idiot. Tried to break in around nine in the evening, and we had him booked before Letterman came on. Even got the report filed," he added proudly. "You know me and reports."

"Right." Standing joke of the office: Colby could write a report slower than any other field agent, and that was before he submitted it to a spellchecker. Don selected his own bagel from Colby's offering, not realizing that it was cinnamon apple until he bit into it.

"So, how was the seminar?" Colby pushed. "I take it Charlie came through just fine."

"Yeah." Why did Don have this hinky feeling about his brother? Charlie had bolted out the door this morning without breakfast, promising to grab something on the way. Did his brother look a little peaked? A little under the weather? Charlie had gotten up late this morning, sleeping through his alarm and then rushing to make up for it. That wasn't unusual. In fact, it was as normal a morning as Don could remember.

So why was Don worried? He sighed. He was letting the non-case get to him. He bit down hard on the bagel, resolving to drag his errant thoughts back to where they belonged. Charlie was fine; everyone could see that. He was still as hyperactive as ever, not withdrawing like Anders' other victims. Don needed to pull his head back to reality.

David pushed a file into Don's hands and picked up one of the remaining bagels, now that his hand was free. "The Carter case. I'm thinking that an interview with Robert Hogan is what's needed to clear up some of those details, then we can proceed to an arrest. What do you think, Don?"

"Willy Klink's in on it, too. I'm sure of that," Megan put in. "I'll take him. Colby, you'll back me?"

"Sounds like fun. Don?"

"Yeah, sure. Go ahead, guys." Don recollected himself. "You think you got enough for a warrant for both of 'em instead of just a question and answer session?"

Megan and David looked at each other.

"Right. I'll take that as a definite maybe. Tell you what: run it by the D.A. and see what they say. If they think a judge will sign it, go for it. Otherwise, polite questions. We don't want to scare them into running and hiding until inflation drops their take to zero." Don stopped short.

Megan prodded him. "Don?"

"That's it." Barely above a whisper.

"What? What do you mean?" Now they were all staring at him.

"Last night. What Charlie said." Don looked at his team. "He didn't even know what he was saying. Charlie asked, 'how does this guy make any money at it?' Guys, how _does_ this guy live?" He warmed to his topic. "We've just been assuming that his money has been coming from those seminars. But just think about how much he's spending: he rented and renovated that building that he's in, in downtown L.A. That costs a bundle. He bought a heavy duty audio system. That's another bundle."

"Don, he charges an arm and a leg for those seminars," David objected. "The initial one is free, but the follow up course for the week runs upward of a thousand. I was there at the first one. I saw the prices on his little brochure that I brought to you. Believe me, there were a lot of people turned off by that."

"Right," Don said triumphantly. "In fact, there were only twelve people at round number two, and about six or seven at this last one. Even assuming that all twelve ponied up at seminar number two, that's still only twelve thousand. That's barely enough to rent the building, let alone renovate it. I repeat," he said again, "where is Anders getting all this money to throw around?"

Colby pushed his chair back. "Sounds like that's my cue for some investigative field work," he offered. "While you guys finish up the Carter thing, how about I see if I can do a little digging into Anders' bank account? I'll put out some feelers. Nothing'll be back for twenty four hours at least, Don," he warned.

"Gotta start somewhere, Colby."

* * *

Now he felt fine.

Last night Charlie could barely keep his head up, managed to head upstairs to bed before Don could pounce, and now he felt fine.

This was not like any flu he'd ever had. What else was within the realm of possibilities? Malaria was one disease with recurring fevers, but the incidence, Charlie thought, here in the United States was so vanishingly low as to preclude his having contracted it.

This morning had been a little rocky. He'd slept so soundly all night long that he'd slept through his alarm. Fortunately, that was a common occurrence, and the dashing about that followed allowed him to avoid both his father and his brother. Charlie peered at the mirror in the men's room. Were those dark circles under his eyes? It didn't look like his eyeballs were turning yellow, as they would if it was malaria.

He was letting Don's concern get to him, Charlie decided, annoyed at himself. Sure, the guy was dangerous, but Don was going overboard with this. Anders hadn't done anything yet that was out of character. The man was slime through and through but that didn't make him responsible for the actions of others. Statistically, people killed themselves, and there was always the possibility that the increased incidence of suicides connected with Anders was simply a blip on the outlier radar. Just because something was unlikely didn't mean it was impossible.

Charlie peered at his eyes once more. _You're stalling, Eppes_, he told himself. _You're still here in the men's room because you don't really want to review the material for tomorrow's lecture. Get your ass back to your office and do some honest work instead of obsessing over Don's case that isn't even a real case._

He sighed. _Is this what FBI undercover work is like? Not sure that I like it_.

* * *

"You fell asleep again?" Don was disbelieving, and Charlie didn't blame him.

Yet another seminar, another round of listening to Anders drone about light and success, and another nap.

"I think there's something in the air," Charlie told him peevishly. "It's newly renovated; maybe the fumes from the paint are still seeping out. My head's killing me. It could have been those lights that he uses in there," Charlie suggested, half desperately and half really not caring. "And the coffee was vile. He needs to get a new food supplier."

Charlie had really resented the height of the surveillance truck that the team had once again 'borrowed' from the garage. Crawling up into the thing was worse than Don's Suburban, and with fewer hand holds for leverage. Don had let him know that even though this 'case' wasn't authorized, the Director was aware of what was going on, to the point of subtly ignoring the 'personal' use of certain FBI equipment. 'Don't get any scratches on it,' had been the boss's parting comment. Something of a joke, Don had said, considering the number of dings and dents that the truck already possessed.

The one good thing about the surveillance truck was that the team could park it surreptitiously just around the block from Anders' building, which meant no ten-mile hike to join them and de-brief. Charlie was grateful. His head was throbbing to the point where he could barely see in the night's darkness, despite all the street lights doing their best to turn night into something close to early morning ahead of schedule. He shivered, tried to control it, knowing that the others would pounce.

Had to be the flu. Some sort of twelve hour, recurring flu virus that he'd picked up from the crowd of CalSci students that he was around, day-in and day-out. If tonight behaved the same as the last two nights, he'd feel miserable until the ibuprofen kicked in and then would be fine in the morning. Charlie couldn't wait until morning arrived. He wished it were morning right now, because he had an overly solicitous big brother, working a not-case, ready to freak if Charlie so much as coughed.

He was right. Don clutched him by the arm. "Charlie? You okay?"

A wave of nausea passed over him, and Charlie began to shiver. Hot and cold flashes battled for dominance. He blinked, and gave in with a heavy sigh. No getting out of this one. "Flu, I think," he croaked. "Feel like crap."

"We're getting you checked out by a doctor," Don announced grimly. "Here, sit down," he ordered, guiding Charlie to one of the chairs in the surveillance truck, one that Don himself had recently vacated. "Grab that bottle of water. Thanks, David," he added, accepting it and wrenching the top off. "Here. Drink something. Something safe."

"Drugs," Charlie whispered, letting his aching head rest against the bank of equipment.

"Damn right, Charlie. I'm getting a tox screen on you just as soon as we pull up to an ER."

"No, I mean I _want_ drugs. Aspirin, ibuprofen, I don't care what it is. Don, this headache…"

"Don!" Megan interrupted. The profiler was still watching the screens focused on the entrance to Anders' business. "Don, we've got a problem."

"What?" Terse, and to the point. Charlie could hear it in his brother's voice: Don didn't want to deal with new problems. He wanted to deal with the one sitting in front of him.

"One of the women in Charlie's seminar. It looks like she's in trouble."

"What do you mean?" Don's attention was getting pulled away from his brother, and Charlie could have cheered if he had the energy. _It's just the flu, Don. I've been battling it for the last couple of days. Go help someone who needs it_.

"Dammit, she just swallowed that whole vial of pills!" Megan jumped up. "Don, _that's_ Anders' victim! That's the one he's after!"

Don made the decision. "Go. David, back her up. Call 911 for a squad if she's going down. Colby, can Anders see what we're doing? Any possibility of him seeing this truck?"

"Not from here, boss. He's not on the scene and we're around too many corners for him to look out a window."

"Good. Megan and David'll handle the woman. Guys, we'll meet at the hospital. Colby, you're driving. No sirens, but feel free to break a few speed limits."

* * *

"Ma'am! Ma'am! Are you all right?" Megan and David reached the woman just as she clutched onto the lamp post, fingers white in the harsh light.

In her late thirties, early forties, Megan swiftly estimated. Older than Anders' usual target, if Don's reports were to be believed. Expensive clothes, designer handbag that had dropped to the pavement. Sharp intelligent features now ruined by tears running down her face, the mascara placing raccoon eyes onto soft brown orbs that welled up with misery. Something fell from the woman's hand and tried to roll away.

David snatched it up. "Percocet," he read from the label. "Megan, the vial is empty. It says that thirty of them were dispensed."

Megan shook the woman's arm. "Ma'am, how many of those did you take?"

"My light won't shine forth," the woman moaned. She wavered in Megan's grasp. "I'm not worthy of living…"

"Call 911," Megan ordered. "Ma'am, how many did you take? What's your name?" She tossed a glance at her partner. "What's the name on the vial?"

"Not hers," David told her. "These belong to a Gary Frank."

Megan made a short leap of faith. "Mrs. Frank, how many of these pills did you take?"

The woman, hearing her name, finally looked at Megan. More tears seeped forth. A trickle of blood appeared at one ear, dribbling down her cheek.

"Not enough," she whispered, and closed her eyes.

* * *

"Melanie Frank." Megan kept her voice down. The emergency department was busy with people bustling about, and it would be all too easy for someone unauthorized to listen in on the discussion. The team was huddled around the stretcher that Charlie was lying on, talking over him, Charlie paying close attention to what they were saying. "Rich, with inherited money. Married beneath her station, if you can believe a quick scan of the gossip columns. They didn't go so far as to use the word 'gigolo' for the husband, but there were plenty of insinuations floating through. I also talked to LAPD; they've been called out to the Frank mansion on two occasions in the last six months for altercations, all settled without charges being pressed by either side. Her therapist hasn't returned my call, but that probably won't go anywhere. Without a court order, patient confidentiality laws will prohibit the therapist from telling me if Mrs. Frank was at all suicidal."

"Without a case, we have a snowball's chance in hell of getting a court order," was Colby's opinion.

"I was able to talk to Mrs. Frank herself," Megan said. "As one of the people who saved her life, Mrs. Frank was willing to talk to me, and she was very open. She's going to be admitted to the crisis unit for a twenty-four observation hold, but I think she'll be allowed to go home after that. She seems to think that somehow her husband is behind this, and has persuaded the ER doc to run some tox screens to see if there were any unexplained drugs in her blood."

David sighed. "Fat chance, with all the Percocet they pumped out of her. She's going to be all right, then?"

"Sleepy, but mad as hell at her husband. Told me that he was the one that persuaded her to listen to Anders. She wasn't very complimentary toward Wesley Anders, either." Megan gave a slight chuckle. "I understand the ER staff is taking bets as to whether Mrs. Frank, upon discharge from the crisis unit, will go straight to her lawyer to file for divorce or waste an hour or so first giving her soon-to-be-ex the tongue-lashing of his life before she files." She broke off as the emergency room doctor entered, clipboard in hand.

"Dr. Bloom." Don popped to his feet, the rest of his team also coming to attention. "How is he?"

The doctor, a younger woman with graying hair and tired eyes, glanced automatically at the clipboard. "Just fine. Simple case of the flu."

Charlie looked up at his brother. "See? I told you."

"What do you mean, flu? Are you sure?" Don was astounded. "I mean, he looked like he was about to fall over an hour ago. And he just came from the same meeting that the other victim came from, the one that my team rescued—"

"What can I say?" the doctor shrugged helplessly. "Nothing is coming back to indicate anything more than that, Mr. Eppes. Your brother is fine—will be fine in another twenty-four hours," she amended. "Until then, rest and plenty of fluids. The nurse will be in with the discharge instructions, and you can take him home."

"What about a tox screen?" Don wanted to know. "Anything on that?"

"Alcohol level: negative. Opiates: negative. Non-opiates: trace, but that's more likely due to lab error than anything significant. Certainly not high enough to indicate anything ingested recently, Agent Eppes. I won't have the full results back for twenty four to forty eight hours but I don't anticipate anything differing from the prelims." Dr. Bloom winked at Charlie and gave him the rest of the instructions. "You can take him home," indicating Don, "and give him plenty of rest as well. He's really worried about you. Nice to have a concerned family."

"Yeah, well, that's open for debate," Charlie mumbled under his breath, then raised his voice to normal. "See, Don? All I needed was a little ibuprofen. Much better now. Let's go home."


	6. Light Goes Out

Don closed up his cell and slipped it away into his pocket, but Colby caught the movement. "Charlie okay?" he asked, tossing the manila file onto his desk. A stray beam of late morning sunlight stabbed it through the dog-eared tab on the edge and then went nowhere. Colby remained carefully casual. His boss's temper had been more than a little erratic over the past few days.

Weak smile in return. "Yeah."

Colby had a task to accomplish, one that Don didn't know about. "That's what, the fifth time you've called him since eight this morning?"

"Uh…yeah. Sixth, actually."

"He getting pissed at you calling so much?"

Hunched shoulders this time. "You could say that."

Colby gave a knowing nod. "He's feeling better, then. A lot better compared to last night. Must have been some flu bug."

Mutter.

"What was that, Don?"

"Yeah. Yeah, he's feeling okay. He went into work."

"At the usual time?"

"Yes, at the usual time." Don glared at Colby. "Don't you have anything better to do than to play Twenty Questions with me?"

"Actually, I've got a lot of other things to do. I got a full day's work ahead of me and then some. We on again for tonight, see if we can wrap Anders' tail up in knots and finish this thing?"

"No."

"That's not what Charlie says."

"When did you talk to Charlie?" Don asked, stung.

"I think it was after call number four that you made to him. He phoned me, asked me to try to get you to calm down. Said something about the numbers proving that we had to keep going, or Anders would bolt and we'd never catch him with his hands dirty. Told me about the Game Theory proof, or some such."

"I don't care what Charlie said. He has absolutely no sense of self-preservation, Colby. He'd walk into a lion's den if he thought it had the answer to his equation, which is what those seminars are."

"I don't know, Don." Colby shook his head. "What he says makes an awful lot of sense. This Anders guy isn't the type to give up."

"He's not giving up; he's won. He got his target: that Frank woman. He's finished. He can pack up his business and move on to another location. He's done. Let someone else deal with him."

Colby leaned back in his chair. "Is this the Don Eppes that I've come to know and respect? Letting go of a case before putting the suspect away?"

"It's not a case. We're not authorized to pursue it. There was no murder, and no justification to investigate."

"Right. That's why we've spent the last three nights watching Charlie stumble out of a seminar where kids kill themselves, trying to figure out how he does it. Working when he's sick with a flu bug, just so we can stop Anders from hurting any more people."

No response. Red started creep up out of Don's collar.

"That's why Anders waltzed in here a few days ago, daring you to stop him."

Veins bulged out from Don's forehead.

"That's why Anders brought Charlie a personal invitation, just so that you'd know that—"

"All right!" Don snarled. "Dammit, Colby—"

Colby turned back to his desk. "I'll set up the surveillance truck for tonight, boss."

* * *

"I don't see why we need these things," Charlie complained as David carefully taped the wires to his chest. Raw reddened areas still dotted the exterior edges where earlier efforts had been removed, taking small quantities of dermal tissue and follicular growth with them during the removal process. "We didn't use them last night, and things seemed to go okay—"

He stopped. Don was glaring at him with a fury that topped anything that Mt. Vesuvius might care to offer.

"Right. Wires. Glad to have 'em. Very necessary. Tape a few more on, please."

Don turned away, only partially mollified.

"What I still don't get," Megan mused from her seat in front of a bank of computer equipment inside the truck, "is how Anders is doing this. Are you sure that you don't remember anything that Anders has been saying in those speeches of his, Charlie? I'm finding it very suspicious that you've fallen asleep every time you've gone."

"Not the first time," Charlie pointed out. "The first seminar was very productive in terms of working out a piece of my Cognitive Emergence stuff. I didn't fall asleep then."

"Yes, but you did the second and third," Don growled. "That mean anything to you?" _As in, this is damn dangerous?_

"Yes, and the tox screen came back negative," Megan said.

_You're not helping, Megan._ "That was just the preliminary. I'm waiting for the real thing."

"Don, Anders has to have some way of making people feel terrible about themselves, and it just doesn't make sense that he can do it in less than a week without some sort of drug or poison," Megan pointed out. "Even people who commit suicide or other violent acts have been subjected to abuse over weeks or months or years—not a couple of days. Look at Melanie Frank; not at all suicidal even if she was unhappy in her marriage. Two speeches, two short sessions with Anders, and she pops a killer dose of pills. It just doesn't make sense. What is he doing in there?" She turned to Charlie. "I don't suppose that there's any way that you can get me in there? As a guest, perhaps? Maybe I could spot what he's doing."

"I could try," Charlie mused. "Don? What do you think?"

"What, you're asking me?" Don's temper was still hovering around 'bear', having slipped down from 'Africanized honey bees'. "Nice to know that you're still considering my input. Try it, Megan. See if he'll let you in. He's still here, doing business, which means that there's still something he wants to accomplish. Maybe he's waiting for another crack at the Frank woman."

"_She_ certainly won't be there," Megan murmured. "Charlie, you ready to go?"

Charlie held up his coffee cup and chugged the last sip. "Espresso," he informed them. "Second cup. No way I'm falling asleep tonight."

"No, just spending it in the john," came the _sotto voce_ response from Colby's direction.

* * *

"Mr. Anders," Charlie introduced, "this is—"

"Mr. Anders," Megan cut in, extending her hand. "I'm Professor Megan Reeves, from the Psychology Department at CalSci. I've heard about your seminars, and I have to say that I'm quite intrigued. Dr. Eppes has told me a great deal about them. I hope you don't mind if I sit in to observe."

Anders beamed. "What an honor you do me, Professor Reeves! To think, that I'm coming to the attention of one of the finest minds in the country! Unfortunately, I have to decline your request," he said firmly. "These sessions are really quite personal, and introducing another person into the equation at the moment could have a strong and lasting effect on the outcome. Would you care to meet with me, perhaps another day, and I can discuss my methods with you in greater detail?"

"I'd love that," Megan told him, sincerity oozing out of every pore. "Tomorrow, perhaps?"

"Excellent. I suspect that I'm free just after lunch. Do stop by."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Megan assured him.

"In the meantime, do enjoy some of the refreshments. We have another few minutes before the rest arrive, and we can start." He looked around, at ease now that he'd won the 'round' with the FBI profiler. "I don't see Mrs. Frank. I wonder if she's coming tonight?"

"One of your clients?" Charlie had to admire Megan's acting ability. He never would have believed that the FBI agent had saved Melanie Frank's life the previous night.

"Yes." Anders shrugged. "Well, I can't wait forever. Dr. Eppes, have some coffee, or perhaps the juice. I'll see you inside the auditorium in a few minutes." He drifted away, speaking to one of the college students that Charlie barely recognized from seeing the kid walking on the campus.

Megan sighed, and sipped at the coffee in her hand. "Busted."

Charlie blinked. "Busted? What do you mean? He ate up every word."

Megan smiled sadly. "Not really, Charlie. Think back to what he said. He was needling me. That line about being 'the finest mind in the country'? Not a chance. He didn't know who I was because I made up the persona on the spot."

"He could have been being polite," Charlie suggested. "I doubt that he's researched every professor at CalSci, certainly not enough to respond without a moment's notice."

Megan shook her head. "No. There were other clues, body-language, that sort of thing. No, I'm busted. Although I might take him up on his offer of a visit," she mused. "It would be interesting to see how far each of us could take it without giving away the whole show. Think about the possibility, Don," she added quietly, for the benefit of the wires taped beneath Charlie's shirt. She finished her coffee. "You might think about a little more caffeine yourself, Charlie," she suggested. "Since I can't get in, I _really_ want a blow by blow description."

Charlie chuckled. "Actually, I think the men's room would be a better option at the moment. I'll see you after the show."

* * *

Megan tugged open the door to the surveillance truck, accepted Don's hand to hop up onto the landing. "You heard?"

"I heard," Don told her. "I'm not thrilled with the thought of you going into the lion's den, either, but we're not getting very far this way. Let's think about it overnight, and decide in the morning."

"Doing something like this during the working day means official time," David pointed out, still leaning over Colby's shoulder. "Can we get away with it? No real case, I mean?"

"I could do it on my lunch hour," Megan suggested.

"I don't know," Don said unhappily. "The Director's been pretty lenient about us borrowing this truck after hours, since other teams haven't needed it. I'm not sure we could get it tomorrow afternoon." He sighed. "I'll talk with him, see how lenient he's inclined to be." He looked at Megan. "That will have a big impact on whether you keep your 'appointment', Reeves. I don't want you in there alone with him, with no way to call for help."

"You let Charlie go—"

"Because we didn't think he would move so fast." Don cut her off. "In San Francisco, in every other town he's worked, his victims showed signs of withdrawal before killing themselves. Charlie hasn't shown any of that. Now, after seeing what happened to the Frank woman, you better believe that Charlie won't be there without some way for me to monitor him. Or any of you, for that matter," he added, glaring around the van, daring any of his team to argue.

Megan shrugged. "I'll keep my lunch hour free, just in case." She yawned widely. "Somebody tell Anders to make this a short session, will you? I need my beauty sleep."

* * *

Megan had departed by the time Charlie returned to the lobby, and the other five remaining participants were filing into the auditorium.

Anders, as before, ushered them to the front. Charlie found himself taking the same chair that he had on the previous two nights. _Creatures of habit, that's what we are_, he thought to himself. _Same chair, same night, same behavior. Patterns: human nature_. Beside him, one young man covered a yawn as he sat down.

Charlie, though, felt wide awake. Good, he decided. He'd be able to hear and remember what Anders said this time. He'd need to, because Anders was already handing out headphones as he had last night. The wire, like the previous night, wouldn't pick up what Anders was saying through the miracle of electronics.

Tonight he was able to pay more attention to what was happening around him. The rest of the auditorium was empty, small whispers of sound echoing into the darkness behind him as Anders turned down the lights to leave only himself in a spotlight. There were another couple of yawns as fellow attendees settled in, and Charlie couldn't resist the temptation to yawn himself.

Comfortable chairs. Much more comfortable, he decided, than the ones in the rows further back. Slightly different colored upholstery, he thought, although he couldn't be certain in the dim lighting. He put the headphones over his ears as instructed, the cups surrounding his auditory canals and preventing any other sound from entering.

Anders' soothing voice immediately filled the space around him. "Let your light shine forth," he murmured. "You are the best, and the brightest, and you deserve success. Let your light shine forth."

Another yawn from the kid sitting beside Charlie, and Charlie had the sneaking suspicion that the girl on the other side had already fallen asleep. _Hah_, he thought, _I wasn't the only one_.

Not tonight. Tonight Charlie was awake and taking mental notes.

Not too many mental notes, he realized sourly. Anders kept repeating the same lines, over and over: _Let your light shine forth. You deserve success. You are the best and the brightest_.

Then, slowly, the tenor of the lines changed. A couple of different thoughts intruded: _You only deserve success if you are worthy. Perhaps you are not worthy_. Charlie began to become uncomfortable. This was definitely something worth reporting to Don. This sounded more like what Megan was worried about, although Charlie couldn't see how this could affect someone as quickly as Don had talked about. This, from all Charlie could remember, was long term behavior modification.

Next step, even darker: _You are not worthy. You make everyone around you miserable. Kill yourself; no one will miss you._

Charlie squirmed in his seat. How could he have missed this? Had everyone slept through this, all six participants? Charlie couldn't imagine anyone listening to this unpleasantness and wanting to return for another helping. There was a sudden small burning in his leg, from the cushion seat. Charlie squirmed again, wondering if a spring in the cushion had come loose, trying to avoid the spot. He tried to massage the spot, rub the burning away—and his fingers came away with a small stickiness. Damn, was that a drop of blood? Sharp metal, puncture wound? Charlie tried to remember if his tetanus shot was up to date. Probably not; Charlie tended to ignore things like that. Better not mention it to Don, or his big brother would use that as just one more excuse to pull Charlie out of this and let Anders move on to kill more kids.

_You are not worthy. You make everyone around you miserable. Kill yourself; no one will miss you._

_This is boring_, Charlie thought. _This isn't a speech. It's not a lecture. It's hypnosis, or whatever Megan wants to call it_. He squirmed again, feeling uncomfortable in his chair, trying to avoid the area with the unfettered spring. The chair, once soft, had become lumpy and hard and his muscles and joints were protesting the indignity. He adjusted once more; nothing seemed to help. He chanced looking at his fellows, and found that they all had their eyes closed. One was even emitting gentle snores.

Charlie couldn't stand out. There was something going on. He quickly closed his eyes, only allowing them to occasionally widen to a bare slit in order to see what Anders was doing.

It was then that he became aware of a deep pulsing, coming through the headphones. It was almost below the threshold of hearing, a pulsing almost but not quite in time with his heartbeat. Charlie fidgeted once more, realizing that the pulsing was in time with the throbbing sensation that was pushing him toward yet another headache. _Not the flu again! This just isn't fair!_

He frowned. Not only not fair, but not accurate. Whoever heard of a flu that attacked three nights running and left him feeling fine the next day? This had to be part of Anders' plan, Charlie was certain of it. Falling asleep every night? Another part, despite Charlie's drug screen coming back negative the previous night. Medical science didn't claim to be able to test for every substance, and Anders, looking to outwit the FBI, would hunt for something that wouldn't show up in routine testing.

_You are not worthy. You make everyone around you miserable. Kill yourself; no one will miss you._

_Score one for espresso coffee_, Charlie thought triumphantly. This was important data to bring back to Don and the others. Megan would undoubtedly know about the effects of sound on the mind, and this could be the very key that they needed to unlock the secrets of Anders' methods. Charlie wondered about trying to leave before the session was over—the chair had really become very uncomfortable, and his joints were aching something fierce—but one peep at Anders squelched that idea.

Crap, the man was looming over Charlie! Charlie kept his eyelids shut, tried to keep his breathing even and regular just as the others were doing. _Sleep_, he told himself. _I'm asleep_.

More looming. Charlie could almost feel the man's presence standing over him. _Sleep. I'm sleeping, like everyone else_. Charlie willed himself not to respond.

A gentle touch on the shoulder. Charlie didn't move. A tug.

Anders must have been satisfied by Charlie's lack of response, because fingers went to the buttons on Charlie's shirt. First the top one, then the second. _Crap, the wires taped to my chest!_ Charlie almost panicked. _What if Anders finds them? How could he miss them? They're right there!_

_I'm busted. I'm so busted. Busted worse than Megan was_. Charlie seriously debated leaping up out of his chair and running for the exit.

But Anders simply buttoned Charlie's shirt back up, and moved on. Charlie struggled not to sigh in relief. Whatever would come of this, it wasn't going to happen immediately. Anders was going to try to play this out.

Adrenalin ebbed away, and Charlie could think further. In fact, there was no reason to panic at all. Anders already knew what the story was. He knew that Charlie was helping Don, probably suspected that Charlie had been wired before. Come to think of it, since Charlie had slept through the previous two 'seminars', there was a good chance that Anders had checked him out for wires those times as well. Charlie began to breathe more easily.

_You are not worthy. You make everyone around you miserable. Kill yourself; no one will miss you._

Then, gradually, the words moved back into a more positive aspect: _Let your light shine forth._ Charlie tuned it out as Anders slowly increased the overhead lighting. He watched the others, emulating their actions, stretching and 'coming awake' as they did.

He tried to get up, found it took two tries. His head was spinning. Crap, he felt awful! The throbbing in his head was still there, despite removing the headphones. He felt wiped out. He took a deep breath, trying to bring himself under control. He had to go on; future victims were counting on his ability to persevere. He took another breath, willing himself to feel stronger.

Anders was at his side. "Professor Eppes, are you all right? You look a bit worn out."

Charlie forced himself to meet Ander's eyes, those blue orbs turning to hazel with the glitter in them. Charlie remembered Don's description of that angry glitter, and suddenly knew exactly what his brother had been talking about. Anders knew why Charlie was there. Charlie knew what Anders was doing. Immovable object was going to meet irresistible force. They both knew that the other knew everything, and Wesley Anders was determined to win this contest.

Not right now. Charlie plastered a smile on his face to offset the pounding in head. "Long day." It wasn't a lie, even if it was an exaggeration.

"I'll see you tomorrow evening, professor?"

"Of course." _Don't hug the walls as you leave. Falling over would be bad_.

* * *

"Megan?" Don shook the profiler's shoulder. "Megan, wake up."

"Huh?" Megan blinked.

"Megan, you almost fell out of your chair." Don peered concernedly into her face. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Just…sleepy."

"Sleepy?" Alarms bells starting going off in Don's head and, by the expressions on the other two, David and Colby's heads as well. Don took Megan's head in his hands, tilting her back so that he could peer into her eyes. "Megan, your pupils are pinpoint. You're not taking anything that I don't know about, right?"

"I'm not…taking…anything." Even in this state, the indignation came through.

Colby came over to see for himself. "Man, she is _blitzed!_ You think Anders had something to do with this?"

"You got a better explanation?" Don asked harshly. He tapped her lightly on the cheek. "Megan! Wake up."

"Hm? Don?" Megan blinked again, and a third time. "Don! What's wrong with me?" She shook her head, and some of the cobwebs seemed to fly off of her brain. "Damn! I can't seem to concentrate."

"Megan?" Don stared at her. Even as he watched, the profiler seemed to regain her faculties. "Megan, look at me."

"What?"

"Just look at my eyes." Don wasn't taking for an answer. He took her head into his hands once more, peering deeply into her eyes. "Your eyes. They're not pinpoint any more."

"What are you talking about, Don?" Megan was waking up, and fast.

"Whatever it was, you're coming out of it," was Don's diagnosis. "You're coming up quick. How do you feel now?"

Yet another blink. "Foolish," Megan admitted. "Don, was I really under?"

"Falling asleep in your seat," Don told her. "Can you come up with any explanation for your behavior except one that involves Anders? You've been with me all evening, eaten the same food that I have."

"Except for the coffee that I grabbed in the lobby before Anders kicked me out."

"Exactly." The smile that crossed Don's face never made it to his eyes.

David too had caught on. "Fast-acting, too, so that Anders' 'clients' go under during the beginning of the session, and come up out of it by the end. This also goes a long way toward explaining how Anders is getting to these kids fast. He lowers their resistance by drugging them, then feeds them whatever line he wants. They'd be putty in his hands." He glanced at the clock set into the bank of computer equipment in the van. "Just about time for the session to end. You think that's why Charlie slept through the past two of Anders' seminars?"

"I know it is," Don said grimly. "Charlie just misses a diagnosis of hyperactive by a split hair, and manic by not much more. Slowing him down takes a sledgehammer. I should have seen it before this."

"You did," David reminded him, "or did you miss the part last night where you insisted that the ER doc do a tox screen on Charlie?"

Don tightened his lips. "Yeah. Whatever it was, it didn't show up. And I'm betting that even if we turned Megan into a pincushion right now, it still wouldn't show up. It probably goes through the body like a rollercoaster and is gone before you know it. No, the only way to figure out what Anders is doing is to get a sample of that coffee." He too glanced at the clock. "Charlie'll be coming out any moment, and I'll bet that he's as wobbly as he was the night before until it wears off."

"Not taking that bet—" David started to say, when Megan interrupted him.

"No, he won't, Don," she said. "Charlie didn't drink any of Anders' coffee. Remember him drinking all the espresso before going in? He was caffeine'd out. He didn't drink any. Not even any of the juice that Anders had for the non-coffee drinkers."

"Damn." That worried Don. "That means that he may not react properly when Anders is holding his session."

"Unless he realized what was happening, and played along," David suggested.

"My brother? Doing what everyone else is doing? Not standing out in a crowd? You and I are thinking about two different people, Sinclair." Don touched the holster of his gun underneath his jacket, reassuring himself of its comforting presence. "I'm going to get him out of there."

Colby turned around. "Don, look! Look at the screen! They're coming out. Man, they looked whipped!"

There was more alarm in Colby's voice than there ought to have been. Don didn't waste any time getting there to look over Colby's shoulder at the screen focused on the front entrance to Anders' building.

The 'seminar' was letting out. The first man walked out, pausing to put a hand onto the frame of the door and leaned heavily, breathing in and out for several long moments before staggering to his car. It took him another moment or two to be able to insert the key into the lock just to get into the car, and Don held his breath when the man narrowly missed getting clipped by a passing car when he pulled out without properly seeing the oncoming traffic. Two and Three slowly trudged out together and plopped themselves down onto a bench to wait for the city bus to come by. Neither one seemed particularly pleased at the prompt arrival of the bus. Sitting in one spot for another half an hour would have been just fine.

"C'mon, c'mon," Don muttered under his breath, waiting for Charlie to emerge. "Chuck, get your tail out of there." He raised his voice. "Anybody hear anything from the wiretap on Charlie?"

"Nope. Just the normal sounds of Charlie walking out. Anders is saying something in the background; can't make it out."

Four hailed a cab. He apparently didn't feel well enough to chance navigating the city transportation hub this late at night. Don didn't blame him. Five took entirely too long to follow, and actually half-fell over the transom before catching herself against the glass door and pulling herself upright. Her car keys fell onto the ground, and she ended up there a moment later, trying to pick them up.

"Isn't that the grad student that Charlie met? Erin something or other?"

"I think you're right. She safe to drive?"

"Maybe not," was David's opinion. "I'll notify LAPD, ask them to send someone around to drive her home. Give me her plates. I'll tell them that she's not drunk or high, that this is not her fault. They'll never believe it any other way."

"Do that." Don had eyes only for the screen focused onto the entrance of Anders' business, waiting for the last participant to emerge. That was really what he was interested in, and if Charlie didn't appear in the next thirty seconds, then Don was going to jump out of the truck and run the two blocks over to—

"There he is."

Don let out the breath that he didn't realize he wasn't using. Obviously Charlie had managed to keep from alarming Anders. His brother's thespian skills were greater than Don realized.

Or, Don thought unhappily, it was equally as possible that Anders had chosen to play along. This was a complex Cat and Mouse game they were playing, and the opponents were Anders and Don himself. Charlie was just one of the pawns and, in Anders' eyes, expendable.

Not in Don's.

Charlie's gait, Don realized, was a lot steadier than any of his predecessor's. Don watched as the indistinct figure made his way directly through the lobby, not hanging onto any of the walls, pushed open the glass door, and stepped out. There he paused to take a deep breath. Charlie looked around, orienting himself, trying to figure out where it was likely for the FBI team to have parked the surveillance truck.

Colby started up the truck's motor before being asked, easing the large vehicle into the meager late night traffic.

"Not too quick," Don warned. "Stay back around the corner, so that Anders won't see us coming." He sat himself into one of the seats in front of the computer equipment, eschewing the seat belt.

"Hey, Don! Look!" Colby sped up.

"Colby!" Then Don saw what Colby had seen: Charlie, leaning drunkenly against the brick wall of the building adjoining that of Anders'.

Double-parked: Don didn't care. He and David leaped out of the truck and over to Charlie.

Don was the first to reach him. "Charlie?" Still standing, which meant still alive. "You all right?"

Shivering. Face whiter than the moon overhead. Droplets of sweat standing out on his forehead, drenching his dark curls and plastering them against his skin. All of this on a cool L.A. night that was as pleasant as L.A. ever got.

"Yeah," Charlie told him. "Feel great." His knees started to sag.

Don grabbed his brother, David propping him up on the other side. "Let's get him to the truck." One touch on Charlie's skin, and Don knew what was happening. "Charlie, you're burning up." Casting a look down the sidewalk and hoping that Anders wasn't watching, Don hustled his brother across the pavement and into the listening post vehicle.

Inside, with the interior lights on, Don was in for another unpleasant revelation. There something dark on Charlie's fingers, something that at first Don was willing to dismiss as dirt. A second glance told him that blood was a more likely candidate. He snatched up Charlie's hand as Megan was pouring some water down the mathematician's throat. "Charlie, what's this?"

Charlie let his head rest against the wall of the truck, looking drawn. He opened his eyes to blearily at what had Don upset. "The chair in the auditorium—the one I was sitting in. One of the springs let loose. It jabbed me."

"It jabbed you? Enough to draw blood?" Not typical behavior for a supposedly new seat cushion. Don exchanged a suspicious look with Megan.

There was more. "Charlie, did you hit your head?" Megan wanted to know.

"No. This is just the flu, or something," he said tiredly. "Can we go home? Don, I'll tell you everything that happened on the way back, I promise."

It wasn't going to be home, but Don wasn't going to tell Charlie that. Not yet, anyway. Not with a drop of fresh blood positioned at the man's ear canal. Not with Megan showing distinct signs of having been drugged. Not with Charlie looking like death nuked in a microwave, the fever emanating from him worthy of a glass-blower's furnace.

What the hell had Anders done to Don's brother?

* * *

"I'm taking a cab home," Charlie informed Don, head held high.

It wasn't easy looking righteously annoyed in a hospital gown, but his brother was doing an exceptionally fine job of it.

"I can get you home—"

"That's what you said before bringing me here. Hand me my pants." Charlie slipped on his jeans, keeping his modesty intact before dropping the hospital gown onto the ER stretcher.

A simple dose of ibuprofen had done wonders for his brother's health, Don realized entirely too late to do anything about it.

Charlie realized it, too, and was making certain to drive the information home. "Blood tests: normal. EKG: normal. CT scan of the brain: normal. Various x-rays: normal."

"Charlie—"

"Big brother: _abnormal!_" Charlie pulled his tee over his head, carefully avoiding the sore spot on his arm where several large gallon jugs of blood had been drained away for extensive testing. The nice ER nurses had conscientiously replaced the loss with another bag of clear fluid into the other arm, but that somehow didn't appease the mathematician. For him, the numbers failed to add up.

"Charlie—"

"Second time in two days, Don, that you've brought me here. This is expensive, or didn't you realize that? I tried to tell you: flu. Ibuprofen. Rest and fluids. You're so panicked over this Anders character that you're seeing ghosts." Charlie slipped his feet into his shoes, not bothering with his socks.

"Charlie, there were two puncture wounds on your leg—"

"Bruises, Don. Bruises. I banged myself somehow, trying to get enough done so that I could go to that silly lecture. Where's my cell? Anybody have the number of the taxi company?"

"Charlie, the blood in your ear—"

"I bumped it, or do you not remember grabbing me outside of Anders' place? I can almost guarantee you that Anders wasn't watching. He would have called 911, so that LAPD could come and arrest the two men dragging me off into a large white truck."

"Look, Charlie, I'm sorry. I was scared." 'Terrified' was the most precise term for how Don had felt. 'Foolish' did pretty well at the moment. "I promise, I'll take you straight home. David and Colby should be here any minute with the Suburban from dropping off the surveillance truck. They're going to see Megan home, and I promise I won't deviate one iota." He held up his hand. "Boy Scout's honor: directly home, buddy."

"You were never a Boy Scout, Don. Dad thought that they were a bunch of ultra-conservative subversives, remember?"

"Whatever. Charlie, I'm sorry. I was scared. I got rattled." Don tried to get under Charlie's skin. "Charlie, when you told me that Anders went to see you in your office…" He trailed off, hoping that Charlie would get the hint.

He did. Don could see the anger melting away from his younger brother's face, leaving him in between _still pissed_ and _you're gonna owe me a big one_. Don didn't care. What did matter was that Charlie was okay. Both Don and Charlie had worked hard over the last few years to build the brother thing, and Don really didn't want to lose it in a single night.

Charlie looked at him, the dark curls still saturated with post-fever sweat and trying to dangle limply into his eyes. "Had you going tonight?"

_Time to suck up_. "Yeah. Especially after Megan zonked out on the coffee." Don also knew when to play the other end, and push in a few facts.

"Didn't she tell you that I hadn't had any?"

"Sure, but who knew what other stuff Anders was gonna throw at you?"

"Her tox screen came back negative, too," Charlie observed pointedly.

"Right. She woke up after about an hour, which is when Anders' seminar thing let out. He's got it well-timed, buddy. He puts you under for an hour, feeds you a load of negative crap, and then brings you up in time to wake up and go home."

Charlie started to shake his head and thought better of it; the ibuprofen wasn't _all_ that effective. "Don, I just don't get it. Whatever he's doing, it's just not that bad. It's like sticking your tongue out at someone and calling them names. That's all he's doing, is chanting stuff about being 'unworthy' and 'nobody loves you'. Anybody with solid family support, this stuff is going to roll off their back. They won't be affected by it."

"Which means that there's something that we haven't figured out yet—" Don started to say when he was interrupted.

"Knock, knock." It was David, and the words had to do since the area was only screened off by curtains. There was nothing to knock on.

Don knew by the way David looked as he pushed past the curtains that something bad had happened.

David wasted no time. He was reporting to Don, but his words were aimed equally at both brothers. "Erin Wernicke, the psych grad student, who left the seminar ahead of Charlie?"

"What?" Don feared he knew what was coming. By the looks of him, by a white complexion turning even more white, so did Charlie.

"Just found dead in her car, apparent overdose." David looked straight at Charlie. "They're ruling it a suicide."


	7. Black Light

"Decaf, Don." David set the steaming cup in front of his team leader. "Caffeine is not on your menu for today."

Don didn't even consider objecting. It had been a rough night. He'd kept his word by driving Charlie straight home, never deviating once, and spent the night there himself. By unspoken agreement, neither Eppes shared the news with their father, that one of Charlie's 'classmates' was gone. It had been late, they'd walked in, shared a brief good night with Alan Eppes, and then begged off, Don heading for the room that he'd grown up in; still his, after all these years.

Margaret Eppes had updated Don's old room while he was in New Mexico, but Don still approved of it. She'd cleaned out the teenage detritus and replaced it with: nothing. The room acquired clean lines and welcoming corners, and Don found that he enjoyed spending the night as much now as he ever had growing up. There was a small picture of Don himself, catching a pop fly, framed and on the wall over a chest of drawers, and the wallpaper had a pattern of faint stripes that reminded him of an umpire's uniform. There was a definite baseball theme but nothing so overpowering that anyone walking in would get hit in the face. It was a good room to spend the night in, and as much as it contained the essence of Don, it also reminded him of his mother, how she used to sit in the stands and cheer. _Still miss you, Mom. Always will_.

Don had tried to sleep. He'd given it his best shot, and he thought that he'd even managed a couple of hours before anxiety woke him and forced him to crack open Charlie's door and peek in to make sure that his brother was still there and breathing. Then he headed back to his room and laid on the bed, staring at the ceiling, wishing that he could go back to sleep.

At four in the morning he had given it up as a bad job. He padded downstairs in his skivvies, not bothering to find an extra robe—he _was_ home, after all—and quietly fixed himself a cup of coffee, intending to dig into the pile of email that was threatening to overwhelm his inbox at Headquarters. The IT department had already sent him two threatening letters, letting him know that he was seriously overloading his capacity and that further missives might or might not get through and how would he like them apples?

He might as well make use of the time. If he couldn't sleep, he could least use the time wisely. Don navigated through the various security protocols that allowed him to access his email from a non-FBI computer and started deleting the spam that managed to creep in despite all of the filters that the IT department routinely erected and refurbished. That in itself would clear out almost half of his overload, he rationalized. He scratched his hand across his bare chest, rubbing the muscles underneath, wishing that those muscles were less tense. Just one more misery to lay at Wesley Anders' door. _Dammit_.

He was on his second cup, enjoying the bitter feeling of seared taste buds, when his father walked in on him.

"You're up early, Donnie."

Don nearly jumped out of his skin. As it was, the nearly full cup slopped over onto his hand, making him yelp and set it down hastily. "Dad! I didn't hear you come down." He looked at the clock on the wall. "What are you doing up so early?" he asked, trying not to sound accusing.

"Hate to break this to you, Don, but I'm an old man. I get up every now and again. What about you?"

"A lot of stuff to clear up for the office…" Don let his voice trail away. His father wasn't buying it. Don was a master of interrogation, but his father put him to shame. Not for the first time Don wondered about hiring his old man to consult on interrogations. They'd clear out the L.A. streets in no time. "A case."

"_The_ case." His father wasn't fooled. "It's not going well."

"It's not going well," Don agreed.

"Charlie still involved?"

Don debated lying. "Yes. Yes, he is."

"_He's_ still sleeping."

"_He's_ smarter than I am."

"Hmph." His father showed what he thought of that response, and poured himself a cup of coffee. "Ought to switch to decaf," he grumbled. "I don't need to be up early any more."

"You could go back to bed," Don offered.

"So could you. You don't have to be in until eight." His father carefully seated himself across the table from Don so that he couldn't see the computer screen. Don would be able to honestly say that non-FBI personnel had not seen his spam. "Can you talk about it?"

"Not…" Don reconsidered. It wasn't a case. A crime hadn't been committed—at least, not one that had gotten identified yet. All the murders were classified as suicides, and Don hadn't been able to prove otherwise. Which meant that it wasn't an FBI case, which meant that Don wasn't _not_ allowed to discuss it. "I guess."

"Well?" Alan prodded, when no further details were forthcoming.

"It's this guy. He calls himself a life coach. We were talking about it, the day that I got back from San Francisco."

"Right. You told Charlie to stay away from him. Charlie didn't?" His father already knew the answer to that question, and was simply using the line to keep Don talking.

"Actually, Charlie did, but this guy went looking for him. Charlie's something of a big name at CalSci, Dad." _We can use that as the excuse. I'm not ready to confess to you quite yet that Anders is going after Charlie because I went after him up North_. "Getting Professor Charles Eppes to go to his so-called 'seminars' was a big marketing ploy for him. We decided to try to use that."

"So that's where Charlie has been spending his evenings. I thought it was with Amita. I should have known," Alan said disgustedly. "Neither one of you will give me grandkids to play with for the next decade. So Charlie's been going to these meetings?"

"Yeah."

"And someone else just died."

"Yeah." As if it wasn't obvious.

"Is Charlie in danger?"

Don started to say no. That didn't seem right, but 'yes' wasn't really the right answer either. "I don't know. I don't think so, but—"

"But you're not really sure."

"Dad, the kids who killed themselves gave off warning signs. They withdrew from their friends, they stopped talking to people, stopped going to classes; all classic signs of depression. Charlie's not doing any of that, is he?" A little desperately.

Alan came through. "No. No, he's still as hyperactive as ever."

"Gee, thanks." A tousled dark head stuck itself into the kitchen, followed by a sniffing nose. The rest of Charlie emerged after. "I thought I smelled coffee." He looked at the kitchen clock, just as the other two had done earlier. "You do realize that it's just after five in the morning?"

"So what are you doing up?" Don challenged.

"What are you?" Charlie challenged right back. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down with them. "I can just bet that I know what you're talking about. I listened from the stairs," he slipped in before Don could object. He swiveled around to face both his brother and his father. "Loud and clear: I have no intention of killing myself. I have not thought about it in the past. I am not thinking about it now. I do not anticipate thinking about it in the future. If I do, you will be the first one that I call to talk me out of it. There. Satisfied?"

"Who's first?" Alan asked. "Donnie, or me?"

"Who would you rather?"

"Me," Don said, with "me!" from his father at the same time.

"Fine. I'll make it a conference call. That good enough for both of you?" Charlie regarded his father and his brother with affectionate exasperation. "I did the research too, you know. People don't commit suicide unannounced. They send out signals. This Anders guy, he's persuading kids to kill themselves, but they're following all the rules. They follow the _pattern_." He leaned back in his chair and inhaled some of his coffee. "_I'm_ not following the pattern. At least, not the pattern that Wesley Anders wants me to." He gave them a big grin, made larger by his desire to reassure them. "However, there is a pattern that I _am_ following: Me first for the shower."

* * *

His team was avoiding him, and Don didn't blame them. His mood was enough to qualify as an instrument of torture, and he couldn't do anything about it. He'd made two calls to Charlie, and both had been rebuffed with a quiet and confident, "Chill, Don. Work on a case that needs you."

Yeah, well, this 'case that wasn't a case' needed him. There were three other files on his desk that also needed him, and so far he hadn't been able to concentrate on any one of them.

Don's mind drifted back to something that Charlie had said: 'how does this guy make any money at it?' They had been coming home, Don remembered, and Charlie had been cranky coming out of the session. 'How does this guy make any money?'

_Of course_. They all knew the guy's motive: he hated smart people. Wesley Anders wanted to get back at all the smart people because they'd refused to admit him to their ranks. He wanted to get even.

But he still needed a source of income. Every city where he set up shop, he needed money to refurbish the building and make it ready for his scheme. He needed a _lot_ of money. Where did the money come from?

Don began to get excited. He should have thought of this before. Follow the money trail; it was one of the basics of criminal investigations. There were some quick and standardized routes to follow, protocols to look at—and information to decipher.

Wait a minute—he _had_ thought of it before. He'd mentioned it to the others, and Colby had set some of the protocol into motion. They should be coming in by now. Don turned to his computer for a session of some advanced hunt and peck maneuvers.

An hour later, the three manila files on his desk were still untouched. An hour later, Special Agent Don Eppes was on his way to the Director's office to discuss opening a case that had originated in San Francisco and was now here.

Two hours later, Special Agent Don Eppes and his team were serving a warrant on the premises of one Wesley Anders, life coach.

* * *

"Two hundred fifty participants, Don." David called Don up to Anders' office to look at the financial books. The office was richly furnished; Anders hadn't saved any money on his decorating bills. "He claims to have some two hundred and fifty participants signed up for his sessions. He claims that almost everyone who attended his first free seminar came back and paid their thousand bucks for the series. A quarter of a million dollars."

"Considering that we've only seen six people besides Charlie attend, I find that hard to believe," Don said dryly. The shakes were gone from his hands, he noted. The drive was back. No more worrying about sending his brother into the lion's den. Don Eppes was in control, and the perp was going down. It felt _damn_ good.

"You called it, Don." David gave credit where credit was due. "Here's the evidence. Two hundred fifty thousand dollars, all in one thousand dollar checks. All drawn on the same bank. All signed by the same person: Gary Frank."

"We'll pick him up for questioning," Don directed. "Let's see what Frank says about paying Wesley Anders this much money and then having his wealthy wife attempt suicide after a session with Anders. Let's see what he says about footing the bill for more than two hundred and forty fake participants as a way of cooking Anders' books." It was all coming together. "I'll call Maddox in San Francisco and have him go through the records up there. Let's see who paid Anders a lot of money to make another 'loved one' commit suicide."

The next stopping place was with Colby and Megan, in the auditorium. That was even more rewarding, if more unnerving.

Megan, gloves in place, had ripped open one of the seat cushions in the front row, the row with the different colored upholstery. She pulled Don over to look at what she'd found.

"I'm betting that this is how Anders got those kids to kill themselves, Don. Look at this seat. There's cushioning around the edge, enough to make people think that they're sitting on a normal chair. But pull the top back," and Megan lifted up the covering, "and underneath we have a nice little hypodermic syringe."

It was all there: a syringe held in a clamp with some sort of contraption attached to it that Don had no doubt would cause the syringe to plunge upward into someone's leg who was sitting there. Megan picked up a clamp to pluck the syringe out of its holder.

She examined the label. "Interferon. Interesting choice. I never would have thought of that." She looked up at her boss. "We'll have to research Anders' background a little more thoroughly," she told him. "I wonder how he knew about this. Interferon, Don," she said, knowing that it would be the next question, "is a medication used for many things: cancer, some auto-immune diseases. It's not a poison. And this needle is so slender that it wouldn't cause any real discomfort, just a little twinge that would be attributed to something else."

"If it's not a poison, then why was Anders using it?"

"For its side effects," Megan said. "It's not consistent, but a common side effect from the use of certain types of interferon is a profound depression, sometimes even followed by a suicide attempt."

"Ah." The light bulb went off. "So this was what Anders was using to persuade those kids to kill themselves. And why it happened so quickly. They were being helped along the downward spiral with this stuff."

"Right." Megan looked Don square in the eye. "Don, another side effect of these interferons is," she paused for effect, "flu symptoms. Headache. Fever, shaking chills. Muscle aches. Ring any bells?"

It did. "Charlie's flu bug." Don set his jaw. "One more mystery explained. Got any more explanations, Reeves?"

"Yes, but you could have guessed this one." Megan pointed to the interior wiring of the cushion. "A remote signal receiver. I'll get Forensics on it, but my guess is that Anders could control every one of these babies, either as a group or individually. Forensics will have to rip up every seat cushion to get an idea of how many of these altered seats Anders had." She jerked her thumb toward the stage where Colby was working, examining the electronic toys that Anders had installed. "Colby's up next, Don. We flipped a coin, and he lost. Go talk to him."

"Got it." Don went.

Colby was so eager to talk that words spilled out all over themselves. "Don, this guy went nuts over this! He had everything hardwired up here from the podium and then sent signals out to each of a dozen chairs, with the potential for a few more chairs if this thing took off and got a bunch more kids to sit in. He spent a big chunk of change on this." Then Colby sobered, and picked up a pair of headphones and handed them to Don. "Look at these, Don."

"Okay, headphones. What am I looking at, Colby? They don't look any different. High end, maybe, but not different."

"And that's the beauty of it, Don." Colby wasn't joking. "Sound. Low frequency sound waves. That's what Anders was playing with here. Another way to mess with kids' minds. That was the reason that he had all of them using headphones. It wasn't for concentration, and it wasn't even to piss you and me off by not being able to listen in on Charlie's wires. It was to most effectively carry these low frequency sound waves to those kids' brains and cause more depression."

"So that's why we found blood in Charlie's ear." It made sense. Don didn't like it, but it made sense. The thought of exposing his genius brother to this…

"Anybody find Anders himself yet, boss?" Colby cut in on Don's self-recrimination.

"No, but I haven't given up hope," Don told him. "His clothes are still upstairs in that room that he has for himself. There's a packed suitcase, but it's in his room. I think we may have caught him, or we will as soon as he tries to approach this place."

"You think he'll just run?"

"Always a possibility—" Don started to say.

Megan came up. "I don't know, Don. This is an angry man. He's likely to lash out before he runs, especially if he thinks that you beat him."

"I did beat him," Don pointed out. "We figured out how he did it. We ruined his little scheme, and we're taking away the money that he took."

"Yes, well, all I'm saying, Don, is to watch your back," Megan warned. "Look under your car before getting in. Check for booby traps before walking into your apartment after work—that's one that I would particularly watch out for," she said. "It's sneaky, it's relatively easy to set up, and it would get you when you're tired and not being careful. That would appeal to Anders' sense of outrage."

An unhappy thought struck Don. "You think he might go after Charlie?" _Charlie, my brother, the weak link because he doesn't know to take the routine precautions that the rest of us cut our eye-teeth on at Quantico?_

Megan was equally as unhappy. "I'd certainly warn him, Don. Statistically, Anders is more likely to go after you. You're the one who pursued him in San Francisco, and carried the case to L.A. You're the one who master-minded the bust, and he knows it. Statistically, he should go after you. But, as Charlie would remind us, it's always that one chance in a million that can come through. I'd warn him."

"Good idea." Don pulled out his cell. "Charlie?"

"Don?"

Yes! Math professor at home in his office, available for phone calls from worried FBI agents. "We got 'im."

"Anders?"

"None other. Financial books: cooked. Chair that you sat in: equipped with syringes filled with nasty stuff to make you see goblins in your sleep. Headphones: complete with mind-altering sound waves, suitable for nefarious purposes. I'm glad you're not coming back here, buddy. This was not a good place to be for anyone. Pass the word: Anders is finished." Don glanced at his watch. It felt good to deliver the news, and Don was in the mood to expand the goodness further. "Hey, how about a celebratory lunch, my treat? I have to head over to the D.A's office so that they can issue the arrest warrant for Anders, then I'll swing by your place with something. I'll get the other three there too, as soon as they finish up the details here."

"Sounds good. I've got the afternoon free. I was planning on doing some work on an article I'm reviewing, but this sounds better. I can chop down an article any time."

"Okay, Chuck. See you in a couple of hours. Oh and, Charlie?"

"Yes, Don?"

"This Anders guy is still at large, so be careful, okay? Don't go anywhere, don't accept candy from strangers, that sort of thing. We'll pick him up pretty soon, but until then, look under and around your car before getting in. Serious now, Charlie."

"Got it. How about Dad? Should we warn him?"

"Couldn't hurt. I'll call him next. See you in a few."

* * *

Excellent day to be alive, emphasis on _alive_. Visit to the D.A.'s office: wonderful. There was now a detailed warrant for the arrest of one Wesley Anders, life coach, on the charge of murder, with the D.A. considering a few attempted murder charges as well. There was now an All Points Bulletin posted so that every cop in Southern California would be looking for the aforementioned life coach, and faxes had been sent to most of the major cities so that if Mr. Anders tried to set up shop under his or an assumed name in a different location, Mr. Anders would find himself being quickly extradited to the City of Angels for an anticipated _very_ long stay, vacations not included. There was the phone call, charged to the department, to Lon Maddox in San Francisco, detailing the financial shenanigans that had occurred in Don's proverbial backyard, so that Maddox could replicate those findings in San Francisco on a retrospective basis and bring additional evidence to bear. How many murders would Anders be charged with? Don hoped that he wouldn't run out of fingers to count on.

On top of it all, the sky was blue and cloudless, and, since it _was _L.A., there was little to no humidity to mar the glory of it all.

Don seriously considered purchasing a lottery ticket.

Only the thought of what Charlie would say about the odds prevented him from dropping the dollar for a ticket. Then…

"What the hell," he grinned to himself, and dug out the dollar bill, handing it to the clerk in exchange for the lottery ticket. "It's my lucky day. I don't _have_ to tell Charlie, unless I win." He stuck the ticket into his wallet and picked up the bag containing high end gourmet sandwiches for lunch, not even caring that his credit card was now in serious jeopardy of being overdrawn.

He parked in the lot outside of the Math Building, didn't mind that he had to park what seemed like two acres away for all of the cars between him and his destination. He grinned; merely another opportunity to enjoy the fresh air. Don did just that, pausing to inhale the sunshine along with the fragrant carnations planted alongside the walkway. The other three would be joining him here just as soon as they put the crime scene to bed in Forensics' very capable hands, and David had promised to pick up something thirst-quenching en route.

Several of the students outside and in eyed him curiously as he ambled past them on his way to Charlie's office. Don knew that look: some of those students were undoubtedly Charlie's, and would be hoping for some extra-curricular project to help with and, incidentally, earn some extra credit. Charlie's classes were fun, Don had heard from talking to some of those students, but tough. Charlie had never been known for handing out easy A's. Big Brother FBI Agent with a bag in his hands usually meant extra credit. _Sorry, guys. Not this time. This is a thank you to a courageous little brother._

Don rapped just enough for propriety and pushed the office door open without pausing for an invitation. Charlie was there, as expected, sitting behind his desk with his feet propped up on the desk and a journal in his hands. Catching up on his reading while waiting for lunch, Don presumed; Charlie usually took those spare moments to do that. There was a moderately sized fruit basket on his desk, the plastic wrapping paper already torn away to expose the fruit below. That too did not surprise Don. Several seminars in search of keynote speakers had taken to trying to entice Professor Eppes with small goodies such as this. The larger corporations usually went for more expensive bribes, electronics and such, to beg a portion of Dr. Eppes' time, but the scholastic endeavors were often cash-strapped and frequently manned by directors interested in good health habits as well as math.

"Hey, nice fruit basket," Don said by way of a greeting. "Who's it from?"

"Ha, ha," Charlie grinned, taking his feet down. "As if you didn't know. Don, you didn't have to do this. Lunch is more than enough. I would have—"

Don's cell interrupted, and Don held up his hand to halt Charlie's words. It was David's name in the window of the cell, and it would likely be important: either something about the case—maybe they'd spotted Anders, even caught him?—or, even more important, that the three were on their way over here for lunch. "Eppes."

"Don?" The panic was being contained in David's voice, but Don still heard it. He stiffened.

"What?"

"Don, you just got a package, here at Headquarters. Forensics has it now. Don, somebody dusted it with poison of some sort."

"Everybody okay?" Lunch just went off the agenda.

"Yes. As soon as it's safe, Forensics is going to try for prints and run it through the wringer. They'll see if they can identify who sent it."

"I can guess," Don told him grimly, turning to look at Charlie. His brother had just picked up an apple from the fruit basket and was examining it, trying not to look too alarmed at his brother's terse half of the conversation. "Any return address? Post mark?"

"It was a basket of fruit, Don. There was a card—"

"_Charlie, __**stop!**__"_

The apple was less than a centimeter from Charlie's mouth.


	8. Let There Be Light

"Charlie." Don was deadly serious. "Put the apple down."

"Don—?"

"Now."

Eyes big and scared, Charlie did as he was told, dropping the apple onto the pile of apples, pears, and oranges, the apple rolling slightly to wedge itself back into an acceptable niche.

"David." Don was still far too calm. Inside was roiling. "David, call an ambulance."

"Don—!"

"I need a Forensics team here immediately, with decontamination suits. Get the lab people to identify what that poison is on the package at Headquarters. It's probably something common, and easily obtainable." He paused to assess his brother. Charlie was white, but it was with fear and nothing else—Don hoped. "Tell them…Tell them that minutes may count."

He put the cell phone away, trusting in his team to be on top of things. There was a priority, and he focused on him. "Charlie." Deep breath. "Tell me about the fruit basket. Where did you find it?"

"I…" Charlie looked bewildered. "I found it here when I walked in, just a few minutes ago. I came in from Larry's office…"

"Just a few minutes ago?" Don took hold of Charlie's wrists, pulling them away from his body. "We're going to go wash your hands. You touched it? What did you touch?"

"Just the wrapper," Charlie told him, suddenly terrified, "and the apple. Don—"

"Stay with me, buddy." Don was drawing his brother along the hall, Charlie's hands held in the air in front of them, toward the men's room and faucets with running water. "You unwrapped it? Then what?"

"Nothing," Charlie stammered. "I looked at the card. It was from you, Don."

"Not me, Charlie. Not me." Almost at the men's room. _Damn, this corridor was long_. Don went past a classroom, one of the science labs—and stopped.

A science lab. Where people played with sometimes dangerous chemicals. Where, according to laws and safety standards and OSHA regulations, there was an emergency shower for times best described as accidents.

This was no accident. This was attempted murder and Don was going to do his best to make sure that it stayed in the category of 'attempted'.

He dragged Charlie into the science lab, barreling through the door with his shoulder. The lab was empty at the moment, but that didn't matter to Don. It could have been filled with giggling sophomores, and he would have done the same thing.

He shoved Charlie under the shower spigot and yanked.

Cold water dropped like a forty day flood compressed into five seconds. Charlie yelped with the shock of it, clothes instantly drenched, the excess water flooding over the floor and aiming for an escape down the nearby drain.

He recovered swiftly, rubbing his hands in the remainder of the downpour, trying to remove any residue that he might have picked up from the fruit basket. "Don…" Shivering set in, the cold turning him into a trembling icicle.

Don had done what he could. He pushed Charlie onto a convenient stool, looking around for something dry and warm to throw over his brother's shoulders. There was nothing.

"Don?" Larry poked his head in, alarm written clearly on his face.

Reinforcements: Larry, with Amita behind him. Don commandeered their immediate services. "Larry, close the door to Charlie's office and guard it. Don't let anyone in; absolutely no one. Be careful; it may be contaminated. Amita, evacuate this hallway _now._"

No backtalk from any of the professors, not even the one shivering in Don's grasp, looking like a bedraggled leprechaun bereft of his pot of gold. _The thunderstorm was still going on_, Don couldn't thinking. _The rainbow was yet to come_. He could hear the faint wail of a siren outside, joined by a second.

Minutes counted. So did seconds. "Talk," Don demanded. "Give me a time line, Charlie. When did you find the fruit basket?"

Charlie automatically looked at the clock on the wall. "I'm…I'm not sure."

"Think, dammit!" Don immediately regretted his outburst. He reined himself back in.

Charlie swallowed hard. "Ten minutes ago, maybe fifteen now. I read the card. It was from you, Don. That's what it said."

They both knew that the card was a lie. No point in wasting time on it. "You unwrapped it?"

"Yes. Plastic wrap." Charlie was starting to babble, his hands still shaking. "I threw it away in the trash."

"Did you eat any of the fruit?"

"No."

Relief rolled off of Don like the water down the drain not two feet away from his brother. He could hear Colby's voice down the hallway, Larry's voice calling to them to direct them closer to the scene and Amita's higher pitch floating above the deeper tones.

"Where are they?"

"Down the hall, in the—"

"In here," Don bellowed through the door so that they could hear them. "Secure Charlie's office. Get the stretcher in here! I've got him." He kept his hands on Charlie's shoulders. "Help is on the way, buddy. You still feeling okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine…Don?" Puzzled. Starting to worry.

"Charlie?" Ice pick in the gut.

"Don, something is hurtin—" Charlie doubled over with an agonized groan. "Don!"

"Charlie!" Don grabbed his brother, kept him from falling to the floor. "Oh, god, Charlie!"

"Don—" The shaking began in earnest this time, better described as convulsions. This wasn't mere cold from the shower, and it wasn't the flu. This was poison, and Charlie was dying in sudden agony.

Don clutched his brother to him, and hung on.

* * *

Ambulance ride. Too long.

Mask over his brother's face, pushing oxygen.

Charlie crying out in pain, the convulsions coming one after another. Strapped to the gurney.

Writhing. Screaming. Gasping for breath, in between the screams. In between the convulsions.

Medic cursing when the IV wouldn't go in on the first shot.

Nothing that Don could do.

Except hang onto his brother. And pray.

* * *

Couldn't sit. Couldn't stay still.

Don paced along the hall, realizing what he was doing but unable to stop himself.

He couldn't stand to be in the ICU waiting room, either. His father was there, and all the conversations he'd ever had with the man about putting Charlie's life in danger floated through Don's mind. _He's not one of your agents, Don. You can't treat him like one._ There was Charlie's hunched over shoulders on the back of an ambulance, his kid brother terrified out of his wits from the time when that contractor dude—Don couldn't remember the name—shot out the window of Charlie's Prius. There was even Charlie himself, glaring at Don, ready to punch out Don's lights over putting Amita in danger.

Don would have given anything right now to have Charlie able to punch out his lights.

Amita was there, too, her hands trembling quietly in her lap. She hadn't said two words to Don since getting there. She hadn't said two words to anyone. Larry flanked her on the other side, a bundle of misery.

And, somewhere beyond those double doors, lay his brother. Fighting for his life.

Poisoned, because Don Eppes worked for the FBI.

Poisoned, because Special Agent Don Eppes couldn't leave well enough alone on a case that wasn't a case. If he hadn't stuck his nose in, then Anders would never have gone after Charlie.

"You did what you had to do, Donnie."

Don jerked his head up. He hadn't realized that his feet had taken him back inside the waiting room. He hadn't realized that he'd spoken aloud. "Dad?"

"You did what you had to do," his father repeated, a tremor in his voice. He looked gray, suddenly looking his age; looking older than his age with fear. "This is not your fault."

"Without you, Don, more people would have died," Amita added bravely, "and no one would have known that they were murdered."

Larry put the capstone on it. "Charles was proud of what you did, Don. He told me so, this morning, right after you called him to announce the discovery of the evidence that proved the murders. He was proud to be a part of your work."

It must have been an allergy to the disinfectant that the hospital used that turned Don's eyes red and watery, because FBI agents never cried.

* * *

The answer came from both directions at once.

David, followed by Megan and Colby, joined the trio in the waiting room less than an hour later.

David wasted no time. "Forensics ID'd the poison on the fruit basket addressed to you at Headquarters, Don. You called it: strychnine. It wasn't just on the fruit, but on the plastic wrapping as well. Charlie was poisoned as soon as he unwrapped the basket. Strychnine needs to be ingested. Charlie didn't eat any of the fruit, but more strychnine dust was aerosolized when he tore open the plastic wrapping. He must have inhaled it."

Dr. Bloom, whom Don had met from earlier, joined them at the same moment. "I was about to say the same thing," she said to Don. Alan joined the group, followed by Amita and Larry. "Strychnine. The symptoms are classic. Hopefully he didn't inhale too much."

"How is he?"

"It'll be touch and go," she told them. This was not the time for sugar-coating. This was the time for honesty. "Supportive treatment for the moment. We've sedated him, and we're hoping that we don't have to hook him up to a vent—a breathing machine," she clarified. "If he makes it through the night, he'll have a good chance." She gave them all a sympathetic look. "We'll do our best," she added before leaving.

Strychnine. Rat poison. No longer used popularly as such, but still available. Used to be an accepted medication back in the 1930's, a stimulant, before better alternatives were developed. Don, like the rest of them, had gone to the mandatory anti-terrorist training courses that the FBI had developed, and one of those courses was bio-terrorism. It wasn't only things like anthrax and plague that were threats, but poisons such as ricin—and strychnine. A miniscule amount of strychnine could break a man's spine with muscular convulsions too violent to imagine. A tiny grain of the stuff was all that was needed to kill a man in a few agonized hours. How much had Charlie inhaled? Don swallowed hard.

He needed to turn his attention elsewhere, in order to remain sane. "Any sign of Anders?" he asked harshly, not expecting a positive response.

"He was there, Don," Colby told him.

"He was? Where? At CalSci?" Don couldn't believe the gall of the man.

"Megan's idea," Colby offered.

"Profiling," Megan told him. "Anders is angry, and angry people do foolish things. He's sticking around when the safest thing for him to do would be to disappear, maybe flee to another country. That's why he sent," she paused, "the baskets of fruit."

"Yeah." Something to shoot at the moment would have been good. A punching bag would also have fit the bill.

Amita was thinking the most clearly of the civilians. She latched onto the important parts of Megan's words. "Wait a minute; you said that this man Anders is sticking around? Are you saying that he's here now? Observing us?"

"He may be," Megan had to admit. "He's getting a lot of satisfaction watching us react to what he's done."

Colby took over. "We looked around, Don, and we showed some pictures of Anders to students in the area." He too was unhappy. "We found traces of him in the building across the quad. We picked up some field glasses in one of the classrooms with windows looking over the Math Building where Charlie's office is; we think that Anders hung around to enjoy the whole spectacle. All the squad cars, all the sirens. He must have been getting a real kick out of it,' Colby added bitterly. "He was so close, and we never knew it."

"Is Charles in any further danger?" Larry asked, then waved helplessly at the ICU doors, realizing what he had said. "I mean, beyond the obvious."

"Probably not at the moment," Megan said. "Right now Anders is getting what he wants: retribution. He'll wait to see what happens, then he'll decide whether to go after Don again or simply move on."

"You mean, if Charlie…" Amita couldn't finish the sentence.

No one could. Colby covered up the silence by changing the subject. "There's a manhunt going on, Don. Not only is every FBI field agent out working the streets, but all three shifts of the LAPD have volunteered to work overtime to try to find this guy. Even the NSA is contributing computer time, trying to find electronic traces of him."

"Makes you realize just how well respected Charlie is," David said quietly, "and how well-liked."

* * *

It was a long night. Don took turns with the others keeping vigil, the nurses bending the rules by allowing them to continually remain at Charlie's bedside instead of forcing them out and Charlie's family demonstrated their appreciation by staying out the way when necessary.

Textbook medical knowledge from the mandatory anti-terrorist course kept trudging through Don's brain: convulsions. Tremors. Anti-convulsants to stop the tremors, and prevent death from simple exhaustion. A heart monitor racing to keep up, showing how the heart was beating too fast for a man who routinely jogged until his normal heart rate was a slow sixty beats per minute. There was the oxygen mask, delivering oxygen to lungs that threatened to quit at any moment—there was an alarm for that, too. Alarms for this, alarms for that. Don wondered how Charlie could sleep through the racket.

He knew how: sedation. Slow everything down as much as possible until the poison worked its way out of his brother's body. Keep him asleep, instead of screaming in agony.

_This is my fault. I went after Anders, so Anders went after Charlie._

_My fault._

* * *

Time to trade places with his father. Time to take his turn at Charlie's bedside, watch the man take breath after breath, hoping against hope that each one would not be the last that his brother ever took. Watch the lines of pain on his face grow deeper even through the sedation. Watch the muscles twitch uncontrollably, knowing that without that sedation those twitches would be convulsions.

His father emerged from the doors of the ICU and leaned heavily against the wall, shoulders heaving.

Don's heart stopped. "Dad? Is he—?"

Alan Eppes' eyes were red, but dry. The tears were still waiting to take over. "He talked to your mother, Donnie. I think he saw her." Deep, shuddering breath. "He asked her to take him home."

Now the tears did come.

* * *

The sun seeped up from the east, turning the horizon a bright pink. _How could I have ever thought that yesterday was a beautiful day?_

_I could have prevented this. I parked too far away. I stopped to smell the flowers, walking into Charlie's office. If I'd hurried, I could have stopped him from touching the damn thing. It was only a few minutes. Just a few minutes sooner…_

_If only…_

"Don?" Weak. But coherent.

"Charlie!" Don jumped to his feet, almost afraid to touch his brother. "Charlie?"

"Tired," his brother muttered.

Don didn't care. It was morning. Charlie had lived through the night. He would be _okay_.

They would _all_ be okay.

* * *

"Did you get _any_ sleep last night?" David wanted to know.

"What do you think?" Don's haggard face said it all. The uncomfortable plastic chairs in the waiting room, muddy water passing for coffee with its only benefit the high caffeine content; no, sleep had not been part of his night.

"Right." David indicated Megan. "Megan's going to stay here with your family, Amita and Larry. Director's orders: you're going to Headquarters with me. There's statements to be written, Don, and you're the only one who can write them."

"David—"

"We need the details, Don." David was sympathetic, but firm. "We need to find Anders. The manhunt is still in progress, and we need your input to focus on where to hunt."

"You know where to hunt," Don told him, trying not to sound petulant. The thought of standing up, of going back into action, even though the plastic chair was about as comfortable as a nest of thistles, was abhorrent. The idea of leaving Charlie here was even worse.

It was Alan who settled it. "Donnie," he said, "go. Charlie is going to be all right; that's what Dr. Bloom said last night, and again this morning. Go and make sure that that madman doesn't try again."

Don sighed. He couldn't fight them all, and he didn't think that he ought to. He was so tired; not just exhausted, but bone weary. _Inactivity gets to us all_, he thought.

_At least Charlie will be all right_.

Nothing else mattered.

David and Colby escorted him down the hall from the ICU waiting room, each one holding onto an arm as if he were somehow going to squirm away. _No, but there's a even chance of falling over onto my nose_, Don thought wryly, recognizing that he was so tired that he was on the verge of hysteria. _Wouldn't Anders like to see that?_ Megan was right; Don knew it in his gut. Anders was around here somewhere, watching. Laughing, perhaps, to see the antics that he'd put everyone through, maybe even thinking up more ways to get back at the man who had pursued him from one city to another.

The hospital had woken up long before, with white coated attendants pushing stretchers past them, nurses in a variety of scrubs hurrying this way and that. Here and there the occasional doctor leaned onto a counter and scribbled something barely comprehensible to mere mortals.

Don stopped.

"Don?" Colby tugged gently.

"Wait." Don turned around. Something bugged him. There was something here, something…

Some_one_.

"You!" Sharp and clear. Directed at one of the attendants, pushing a stretcher. An attendant who had ducked his face while passing the FBI trio, but hadn't been able to cover himself sufficiently to escape Don's exhausted gaze.

Someone who broke and ran.

"Go!" Adrenalin kicked Don into high gear. Exhaustion forgotten, he took off at a full out run, legs pumping. "David, down the stairs!" he yelled. "Colby, to the left!"

They split, to encircle Anders, Don taking the most direct route straight at the suspect. Carts were slammed into his path, Anders throwing everything he could to slow the FBI agent down. Anders plummeted down the staircase at the end of the hall, dashing out onto the floor below only mere seconds ahead of Don.

Hunter vision narrowed to one thing: the suspect. Don's gun arrived in his hand, and Don would never be able to remember pulling it out of his holster. Anders toppled a tall linen cart to try to halt the pursuit; Don leaped a full six feet to clear the obstacle. Fury lent him speed.

They cornered Anders in a small room with all sorts of medical tools in it, bloody gauze pads left heaped on silver trays awaiting proper disposal. The window behind Anders was large but screened in. Anders would never be able to crash through it.

He was trapped.

Anders snatched up a bloody scalpel. He held it in front of him. "I'll use this!"

Scalpel versus three guns. No contest, and Anders realized it. He tried a new tactic: he raised the scalpel to his own throat. "I'll kill myself!" he threatened.

Don kept his gun trained on the suspect, as did David and Colby.

"Be my guest," Don invited. "Kill yourself. It'll be the only real suicide you've been involved with."

* * *

"An egotistical personality," Megan diagnosed. "I'm not surprised at Anders' action, there at the end before you took him into custody. In his mind, he was the only one who mattered. He expected you to want to keep him alive; that was why he threatened himself. He thought that you would cave, and he could escape."

"Right," Don grunted. "He was wrong." It felt good to say that; that and an interceding twenty four hours, including some twelve spent on sleep, had done wonders for his mental state.

Don's father looked the worst of them all, and that included Charlie himself, lying in the hospital bed with the head raised just enough for him to keep track of the conversation. Alan hadn't yet gone home to clean up, had refused to leave while insisting that the others take their turn. "I just need a little more time with my son," he had told them. "I'll go later this afternoon."

It was almost evening, and Alan still hadn't gone. Don anticipated a battle, and had come prepared with the rest of his team if force was necessary. "Hey, Charlie," he said, walking into the room. Amita was back, he noted, although Larry was absent.

"Preparing to cover my freshman calc class," Charlie told Don and the others.

"Larry hates freshman calc," Amita put in with a grin.

"Really? Then why aren't you teaching it?" Megan wanted to know. "I thought you loved it, Amita."

"Oh, I do," she said, "but Larry lost the coin toss, fair and square. It wouldn't be right to deprive him of the chance to live up to his end of the bet."

Megan grimaced. "That means that tomorrow night I'll be subjected to three hours of a lecture on how luck is actually a quantifiable part of the universe and what it means for the revelation of some theory."

"Spend it here with me, instead," Alan invited her. "Charlie is lousy company. He keeps falling asleep on me."

"Hey." Not enough energy to justify an exclamation point, but Don didn't care. Charlie was going to be all right. Pale as a ghost? Didn't matter. Sucking oxygen through a plastic mask? Good enough. Not even able to raise a hand to spoon in wiggling blue jello that moved faster than he did? That was luck enough for Don.

Speaking of which…Don pulled out the lottery ticket from his wallet. "Anyone know the winning numbers?" he asked.

Charlie's face fell. "Don, you didn't. You do realize that investing a dollar each week instead of wasting it on a several million to one shot will net you—"

"Charlie," Don interrupted, "I figure I spent my luck by being able to talk to you here and now." His brother was weak, but could still work up indignation over something like this? Don leaned over. "Do you think I care about a stupid lottery ticket?"

"Don—" Don could see that Charlie really wanted to argue with him, exhaustion or no. Okay; the one and only good thing about Charlie lying in that bed: Don automatically won the argument just by being able to stand up and loom over his brother.

"Don…" There was an odd note in Alan Eppes' voice. Alan held the newspaper in his hand, the paper that he'd gotten to while away the time with Charlie sleeping through the day.

"What?"

"Don, the lottery ticket."

"You're kidding." His father had to be kidding. It was a million to one shot. Don had used up all of his luck on the Anders case. "I won?"

"Right here." Alan indicated the spot in the newspaper that listed the winning numbers. "You won."

"I won?" Don repeated. "I won?"

Alan whacked his son over the head with the paper. "Yes, you won, Don. You won ten bucks."

The room broke up into laughter.

But looking at his brother, and his friends and his team around him, Don knew that he'd won a lot more than money.

The End.


End file.
